Dragon Age: Heroes of Fereldan
by Earth-94
Summary: As a young scion of the Cousland family, the duty of carrying its banner falls to Artha, youngest son of Teyrn Bryce Cousland. But sometimes Destiny has other plans. An ancient foe returns and the Kingdom of Fereldan falls to civil war. Fate has chosen Artha to unite the shattered lands and with the help of allies and enemies alike, end this Blight before it ends the world.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer: All rights and names belong to BioWare, I don't own any of it but my character whom I see as just a loan from the creators.**

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 **PROLOGUE**

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" **And so is the Golden City blackened**

 **With each step you take in my Hall.**

 **Marvel at perfection, for it is fleeting.**

 **You have brought Sin to Heaven**

 **And doom upon all the world."**

 **~Canticle of Threnodies 8:13**

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The long hike over a high rise toward the edge of a cliff did not tire me, despite the dragging of my heavy armour. Every step I felt a sense of dread as I soon saw it, the aftermath of battle and savagery. Three bodies, strung up by the neck to a tree, swayed in the open breeze, as though they were dancing to a steady rhythm. I found myself surrounded by the corpses of fallen soldiers and villagers left in bloodied pools that stained the ground. Then another body a few metres away from the edge, lifeless and still and when I moved it revealed a bone hilted sword stuck in his chest.

I had sent envoys a couple of days ago to several locations all across Fereldan and knew something was amiss when one had failed to make contact. I figured there might have been complications but this drew something else out, for the style of blade shook me to the core. Then I heard the rustling of footsteps in the leaves behind me, the sudden fell stench of decay and corruption. Was it the dead that littered the southern grass? No, something fowl, something worse.

I reacted in a flash, the result of decades of training, dodging a blade coming from my left, trapping its wielder and relieving it as I spun the assailant away, another one came at me and as I had suspected and feared, I was staring into the face of a monstrous being, horrid and deformed mirror of humanity. Their own sword swung up across the monster's armoured chest, piercing the metal and the flesh and once it fell, I plunged the weapon down to end it.

It was a darkspawn, a herald for the evil days to come. A monstrous and disgusting aberration as old as the Chantry of Andraste itself.

I then marched over to the first assailant, a larger brute, but like any darkspawn, disfigured mutations with grey and often dirty complexions vacant and bloodshot eyes on a large head that resembled slightly a human skull yet still with some skin to hold it all. He cackled and growled like a wild dog as he tried to find his feet. My armour clanked as I approached the creature, with much prejudice and kicked it off the ledge, watching it fall only to have my weathered eyes bear witness to this haunting sight.

The Chantry teaches us that it was the hubris of men which brought the _darkspawn_ into our world. Tevinter mages had sought to usurp Heaven, but instead, they destroyed it. They were cast out twisted and cursed by their own corruption and returned as monsters, the first of the darkspawn.

They became a blight upon the lands, unstoppable and relentless.

The dwarven kingdoms hewn from under the mountains were the first to fall, and from the Deep Roads that they excavated, the darkspawn drove at us, again and again until finally, we neared annihilation.

Until the Grey Wardens came. Men and women from every race—warriors and mages, barbarians and kings. The Grey Wardens sacrificed everything to stem the tides of darkness... and prevailed. We specialised in the hunting down and destruction of the darkspawn, to drive them back into the shadows from whence they sprouted out of.

 _In war, victory. In peace, vigilance. In death, sacrifice_ ; these are the words taught to us as Grey Wardens. Not as profound or illuminating as the Chant of Light but just as inspiring, just as important. It has been centuries since that first victory and we have kept our vigil. We have watched and waited for the darkspawn to return—and they always return.

But those who once called us heroes have forgotten…

As I stand at the edge of the abyss, my fists tighten as I wipe the blood and the sweat from my face. "Maker help us all," I mutter as I look on in horror. There down in the valley coming out from the mountain pass to the south, a horde of darkspawn, torches lit as they passed, and setting fire to their path of destruction. A host at over ten thousand strong, monstrous darkspawn passed through the forest lands. We are few now, and our warnings have been ignored for too long. It may even be too late, for I have seen with my own eyes what lies on the horizon. "Maker…help us all…"

— _ **Warden-Commander Duncan**_

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 **-O-**

 **Author's Note: This is my first attempt at writing High-Fantasy fiction. The Dragon Age series is my favourite of all time and here I want to adapt my own experiences in Thedas as best I can—it's been a while since I've played Origins. Please comment what you guys think so far and how I might be able to improve.**


	2. Book One

— **Dragon Age—**

 _The ninth Age is named after the first high-dragon sighted in centuries. By the end of the Blessed Age, many of Thedas believed that all the dragons had vanished, hunted down into extinction, that is until a dragon was sighted rampaging in the Frostbacks. Divine Faustine II declared the next age after the Blessed Age to be one of violence and destruction, thus ever it was heralded the Dragon Age._

 _The Fereldan Rebellion saw the re-emergence of the dragons as a good omen and led by Prince Maric, drove the Orlesian Occupation out of their lands and re-establishing Fereldan's sovereignty in 9:2 Dragon. The King allows the Grey Warden Order to return to Fereldan after two centuries of exile._

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— **O—**

 **BOOK ONE**

 **-** _ **TRAITORS OF THE REALM**_ **-**

— **O—**

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The Chantry calendar measures time in "Ages". Each Age lasts approximately a century and so far there have been nine. The first Age, called the Divine Age was marked by the creation of the Chantry of Andraste while time periods before that are referred to as Ancient, so 400 years before the first Age would be -400 Ancient. This is equivalent to 800 TE by the Tevinter Imperium reckoning, when their mages, misguided as they were, attempted to physically enter the Golden City, they returned as the Darkspawn.

In the 99th year of each Age, the Divine looks for an event or portent to determine the name of the new Age.


	3. Artha

**Chapter One**

— **ARTHA—**

 _ **S**_ ome lands are ruled by men and women who believe that they have been elevated to their ranks by the Maker Himself, but Fereldan rulers must earn their places. The nobility is not suffered gladly as the Orlesian Empire discovered when it attempted to occupy this land. The Couslands who lorded the north lands from Highever, have stewarded for many generations, dating back before Fereldan's first king was ever crowned.

Artha, a young man of eighteen years, tall and broad shouldered, a spitting image of his father some said, with light brown hair braided to the back in the style of most of the youthful nobles in Fereldan. As a young scion of the Cousland name, he was expected to fulfil the duty of carrying his father's banner. Yet his heart was always plagued by that anxiety, of living up to his family's proud heritage. His clean shaven face was free of marring that plotted his father's—a token of the wars he fought in the past. But Artha enjoyed a rather sheltered life albeit with their own set of problems.

The young lad looks on from the sides with glee and excitement as his countrymen gathered in the courtyard. His father's troops were marching into position, lining up outside the steps to the Great Hall. There was trouble brewing, and the King of Ferelden had sent orders to all of his lords and generals to gather in the south.

When the realm was occupied by the Orlesian Empire, his father and grandfather served the embattled kings of his land, or so Aldous used to say. They were the king's men, the Couslands. Loyal to the last breath, to the last blood.

These days, his elder brother Fergus took up the banner of House Cousland in service to the crown, not against foreign invasion however. There was talk, rumours coming from the wilds that the darkspawn were rising to the surface like worms in a flooded stream.

This was all too exciting for the young lad, who grew up on tales of ancient wars, gallant heroes and terrifying monsters. An opportunity for him to serve his country and show his remembered those lessons with Brother Aldous, ' _If the mind is not exercised, it withers just as the body does_ ,' still crosses his mind from time to time now—an annoying voice, yet he never said anything that wasn't in some way useful.

Like the importance of weariness shared between Houses, of one another. The history between the Couslands and the Howes of Amaranthine reaches back to the Orlesian occupation. During the rebellion against Orlais, Artha's grandfather, William had openly supported the rebels, but the Howes or more specifically Rendon's own father, Tarleton, sided with the Orlesian Empire. William was forced to seize Harper's Ford, the centre of Highever and managed by Tarleton and a key outpost that drove the Empire out of Fereldan.

He was to be hanged for his treachery. Those who remained of the Howe family joined the rebellion with the rest of Fereldan behind King Maric and General Loghain. The strongest bonds of fellowship transcended blood ties.

Artha was actually about to retreat to the library when a Highever guard came up to him. Jon Barrow was only two years older than him, they had grown up together though now he scarcely saw him without a full helmet over his head.

"Dreaming you were off somewhere else?" Guardsman Barrow estimated.

The young Cousland shrugged, "That's why we have dreams in the first place. Still, perhaps after all this is over, my mother would allow me to travel, maybe go to Antiva or maybe Val Royeaux?"

"Ah yes, want to see the world so visit tourist destinations," the guardsman chuckled. "Anyway…Teyrn Cousland requests your presence."

Artha jumped from his wall and he dismissed the guardsman who returned to the Main Hall ahead of him. He continued to look at the soldiers in neat uniformed lines. He sees the two green laurels on blue fields, sigil of his family, blowing in the Northern winds like spectres. To Fereldan, House Cousland was not just a noble house, it was one of greatness, a family that prided themselves in their sense of fairness and justice.

He himself had gained quite renown on his part as a formidable warrior, at least for one lacking in formal training, he was if anything eager to learn—but House Cousland already had warriors, and Eleanor Cousland would not have another eager for the sword. Instead she tried to focus developing the academic aspects of his life.

Yes, he was sheltered, alas he spent days yearning for adventure, if not in the real world, then in the pages of books within the library. His favourites were Elvhan myths and fables—the Evanuris, the Fall of Arlathan, or the Dread Wolf. He loved those tales, even some old Fereldan ones Nan used to tell him. After some minutes conversing with the servants he walked over to the castle's grand Hall.

The Main Hall was your standard feasting hall, like many in Fereldan castles. Long rectangular frame structure of old traditional architectural design with a big fireplace at the head. Around the room were old spears crossed behind round shields, and guarding every pilaster were states of Northern soldiers. There were also family paintings of the Teyrn and his family, including a rather embarrassing one of him when he was eleven if he recalled.

"…I expect they'll be arriving tonight," a man standing between two armed guards had said, abashedly, "and we can march tomorrow. I apologise for the delay, my lord. This is entirely my fault."

Teyrn Cousland shook his head with a smile. "No, no," He responds, coming away from the warmth of the fireplace. "The darkspawn in the south has us all scrambling, doesn't it?" he comes down to meet his old friend who despite Bryce's attempts to ease him, was still plagued with a troubled look. "I only received the call from the king a few days ago, myself."

Artha was a little nervous. He wanted to broach the subject in private but now his father summons him into the Great Hall, and Arl Rendon Howe of Amaranthine was there also? The Arl was a taller man than his father though not as physically defined in terms of a Fereldan warrior, with a neatly combed set of greying hair and long pointed nose, he had almost entirely resigned himself to a politician's life. What with the shining violet tunic he wore over a straightened back hid just how thin he really was now.

"I'll send my eldest off with your men. You and I will ride tomorrow just like the old days." That settled it. Artha doubted now that his father called him in to invite him to join the army to the encampment.

Arl Howe chuckled, patting his old friend on the back, "True. Though we both had less grey hair then. And we fought Orlesians, not…" Howe sighed, shaking his head like he was still in denial of these darkspawn. "…not monsters."

Bryce laughed, he missed those old days with the army. Fighting as a warrior was far easier than being Teyrn of the Northern Coast, and the banter made everything so much more endearing. Still, he had much to be thankful for Rendon that he chose to support the Fereldan Rebellion against Orlais, against his own parents. "At least the smell will be the same."

He paused when he saw Artha approaching them.

"Oh, I'm sorry, pup, I didn't see you there." Artha beamed at his father and bowed slightly to the Arl of Amaranthine.

Howe drew the young Cousland in for a quick hug. "I see you've grown into a fine young man," he said. "Pleased to see you again, lad."

"Likewise, my lord," Artha replied in kind. "Has your family accompanied you?"

"Oh no, I left them at Amaranthine, well away from the fighting in the south," he answered and added that they did send him their best wishes. "My daughter Delilah did ask of you. Perhaps I should bring her next time?"

Artha had missed the knowing glance shared by the Arl and his father, with faces hiding their mirth terribly. "I'd like that," he said a little too quickly. Delilah was Rendon's second born after Nathaniel, and last they met he really did sprout a little crush on the girl, one he was more than sure she did not reciprocate.

"At any rate, Artha, I summoned you for a reason." He glanced down at the sword by his son's side and looked at him with sympathy. "While your brother and I are both away, I'm leaving you in charge of the castle."

The young lad's shoulder drooped though the burden of disappointment had been lifted slightly off of him before he approached them anyway, he couldn't help but feel sorry for himself. Did his father not see him as worthy enough to join in the fight?

"I'm certain you'd more than prove yourself, but I am not willing to deal with your mother if you were to join the war." He then placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, it was as if he already knew his thoughts. "She's already twisted into knots about Fergus and me going."

Artha opened his mouth to disagree, but then thought better of it and just bobbed his head and assured him that he'd do what his father thought was best. Thankful, Teyrn Cousland embraced his young son, reminding him of his responsibilities and that only a token force was to remain behind in the grounds to help keep the peace at Highever.

Artha bowed and was about to leave when his father stopped him. "There's also someone I want you to meet."

Another man joined them in the Main Hall. An older man though it was hard to tell from first glance. His hair was greying though not by much, tied back neat and tidy, his face bearded and his eyes stern and focussed, windows into a terrible world of horrors and war. A battle-worn warrior—from the attire he wore were rather distinct, a mixture of ancient styled armour and ankle length robes. But it was the symbol he wore on his chest that intrigued him—a double headed griffin with its wings outstretched above it.

"It is an honour to be a guest within your hall, Teyrn Cousland," the warrior spoke.

It was Arl Howe's mouth that dropped first, and Artha did not think it possible but Howe's back had gotten even straighter. "Your Lordship, you didn't mention that a Grey Warden would be present."

"Duncan arrived just recently, unannounced," Bryce informed. "Is there a problem?"

"Of course not, but a guest of this stature demands certain protocol," replied Howe as-a-matter-of-factly. His face displayed subtly a hint of confliction, "I am…at a disadvantage."

That was true, and Fereldans rarely had the pleasure of seeing one in person—a Grey Warden. He remembered Aldous teach him who they actually were. An ancient order of warriors he told them when his father asked. Strangely he now felt rather self-conscious, now as he stood in the man—this Duncan's presence, though he seemed a tad different to the tales and legends that he'd heard, Artha felt like a child again, with a head full of questions.

He had no doubt without the Grey Wardens' warning of the rising darkspawn, half the nation would have been overrun before they had a chance to react. His father also revealed that Warden-Commander Duncan was looking for recruits before he was to join his order in the South. Immediately, Artha's eyes popped out with anticipation, in hopes that the news pertained to him.

"I believe he's got his eye on Ser Gilmore."

Artha's heart sank just as quickly as it rose, but then again he should have seen this coming as well. Even as Duncan inserted a consideration for him to join, reminding him that to be a candidate would be an honour, Bryce held firm against the idea.

"Honour though that might be, this is one of my sons we're talking about," he said, crossing his arms over his broad chest of Fereldan Weave. "I've not so many children that I'll gladly see them all off to battle—something my wife feels strongly about. Unless you intend to invoke the Right of Conscription…?"

Duncan's stern face, though marred by slight wrinkling began to soften, he inclined his head in respect and replied, "While we need as many good recruits as we can find, I've no intention of forcing the issue."

Bryce's smile returned and he thanked him with contentment. Unfortunately, Artha would not be unburdened by the thought. Why couldn't he join the Grey Wardens? Would it be so bad if he did?

Alas in the end Artha knew exactly why he couldn't join the fray. Before he was left to his own devices, his father instructed him to attend to Fergus with orders to lead his troops to Ostagar in the southern wild lands ahead of the rest of their forces. "We need to discuss battle plans for the south."

"It would be good to ride beside your father again," Arl Howe commented. "We fought for King Maric, you know." He continued with a chuckle, "That man knew how to take care of his friends. As they say, he was large as life and twice as tall." But then his laughter faltered. "It's too bad Cailan isn't half the man his father was."

From what Artha had gathered, Rendon thought of King Cailan ' _as much as he thinks at all,_ ' were his words. A brash and immature young man who some considered too naïve for the throne, now prepared to lead armies against an ancient foe. Apart from that Artha knew little else of his liege-lord though he might guess they'd much get along quite well.

The young Cousland bade the Warden farewell and turned to Arl Howe. He beamed up at him and bowed courteously. "I just want to wish you well, my lord. Your friendship and support means a lot to father."

To this, Howe looked down at his feet, allowing breath to escape his chest in a slight release. "I…thank you, my boy. That is…quite unnecessary." When he looked up Artha saw a bashful, conflicted fog in his eyes, he still felt guilty for his delayed soldiers. He relieved himself and exited to the courtyard. Left of the front plaza was the cloister halls for the Chantry. Down past that, past the family vault which housed the ancestral sword and shield, was the library.

Brother Aldous was a rather quiet individual but his stern expression and low grumbling was often more informative than anything. Usually it indicated when he wanted people out of his sight because they were, simply it was because they were pissing him off. Sometimes that would be the most courteous he'd be.

When he entered the small chambers that housed an assortment of books and old scrolls, he noticed the old man, robed in green and purple with hair, messy and unruly like he'd scarcely seen a bath in days. Chances were that it were true. In fact, if Artha had to guess his mentor had fallen asleep at his desk again. He seemed half asleep as he stood before a desk of four—his students, no doubt, two boys and two girls no older than eleven, and bored out of their wits.

"Well, I'm glad some of my lessons don't disappear into that yawning chasm between your ears, my lord."

Artha laughed at his old mentor, who was actually much older than his looks suggested. He had just started talking about his family's history, their connections to Fereldan royalty and their unwavering loyalty to the crown when Artha had interrupted, trying to lighten the mood by secretly mimicking his aged teacher behind his back. It got the children's attentions, giggling at his attempt in humour. "Your lecturing does tend to lead to yawning, Brother Aldous," he quipped, eliciting even more chuckles from the younger students in their presence.

For a moment, Aldous joined in their laughter though at his expense, however short-lived it may be, it was good to see him smile every once and a while. "At any rate," then Aldous was back to his boring, dignified self again, "the Cousland family has held the teyrnir of Highever since before King Calenhad united Fereldan."

"The Black Age if I'm not mistaken," the young lord offered. "During the Lycanthrope plagues"

There was a glimmer of pride seeping out from the aged scholar's bearded face but he hid it just as quickly and continued. "In fact, Teyrna Elethea Cousland battled Calenhad to maintain Highever's independence."

"She failed," Artha interjected.

"Calenhad wanted to unify Fereldan, not conquer it. After her army was defeated, Calenhad asked her to swear fealty and she would retain her teyrnir."

By then though, Artha noticed the children had perked up a bit, straightening their backs as they listened. "Well, we're ardent royalists now, but at the time, Calenhad was unknown and a lot of people considered him dangerous."

Artha was about to continue when red headed knight came into the library, a dire look in his eyes. Ser Gilmore searched the chambers until he spotted his young lord with Aldous. "There you are," he marched up to them which took the attention of the children even more. "You're mother told me the teyrn had summoned you so I didn't want to interrupt."

He chuckled at the out of breath knight. "Well hello to you too, buddy."

"Pardon my manners, my lord. It is simply that I have been looking all over the castle for you. I fear your hound has the kitchens in an uproar once again," he reported. "Nan is threatening to leave."

Artha groaned. _Fang's gotten into the larder again?_ "Nan's just blowing off steam, she'd never leave us."

"Your mother disagrees. She insists you collect Fang and quickly."

Again, Artha released an annoyed groan and nodded. He bobbed his head low to his aged mentor and to the children, and took his leave following the red haired soldier. He swore Fang confounds Nan just to amuse himself, he gets so easily bored here.

As the two walked, Ser Gilmore asked him about rumours circulating about Duncan's presence. "Excited?"

"Awed, more like," his simple reply, his own face displaying wonder and delight. "The reputation of the Grey Wardens as mythical warriors is unsurpassed." Yet there were so few of them in Fereldan. He then asked for confirmation that the Grey Warden was asking for him.

"Yes, I think he's interested in recruiting you."

"Maker's breath! Are you certain?"

Artha nodded and recounted his encounter, describing the old warrior to him. That was probably why Gilmore didn't ride off with the rest of the men. He was probably to stay with the complement guarding the castle, probably because the Grey Wardens wanted to see him. He was an admirable man, sent to squire for the Couslands from the Bannorn, a large and prosperous farmstead town.

"Can you imagine? Me? A Grey Warden?" Gilmore couldn't wrap his head around it, gleefully smiling from cheek to cheek as they made their way to the kitchens in the eastern wing. "It would be everything I've ever dreamed of."

Then again, the life of a Grey Warden wasn't going to be an easy one. Even to Artha, their order was much a mystery, he only knew that once you become a Grey Warden, your old life was over. There was no going back. Yet he knew that to serve them, to join the Wardens was one of the highest service one could render, it would not be one in his foreseeable future.

No, his mother saw him somewhere in Highever, his own lordship maybe, with a wife and small litter of Cousland children. The prospects of becoming a Grey Warden was veiled by the dangers that sprouted out of the grounds. Maybe after all this was over he could broach the subject yet again, and maybe she'll say yes, or at the very least allow him some freedom to travel throughout Thedas.

They reached the kitchens in record time, enough to get an earful of Nan's version of profanity. The old woman had her hands to her hips, frowning disappointedly at the elvhan servants who shrank away at Nan's chastisement.

"Err…calm down, good woman," Gilmore announced them. "We've come to help—"

That might have been a mistake though because now she spun around very quickly, her eyes a blazed as she locked onto the young lordling. "You!" she exclaimed meeting them at the door. "Your bloody mongrel keeps getting into my larder. I swear that beast should be put down!"

Artha raised his hands innocently. "I'm sorry he's bothering you, Nan," he says sincerely.

Instantly Nan's anger seemed tempered, she sighs and swiftly orders the boys to get the dog out. The elves were by her side, pleading for her to calm down while Nan moaned about resigning to cooking at an estate in Bannorn.

They could hear Fang at the back, growling and barking aloud.

"I've had enough to deal with a castle filled with hungry soldiers without your hound ruining the stock," Nan huffs.

Artha and Gilmore stepped to, running in toward the wooden portal to the pantry chambers. Fang was by the door but his back was turned from them, looking into the dark and damp room. Artha told his knight to lock the door behind them for he'd seen Fang like this before and it was usually when he sensed danger.

Was there a trespasser? An Orlesian spy or some thief come to an open bar?

Artha held his hand over his short sword and instructed Gilmore to do the same. Just then, a figure appeared from the dark—a pair of red eyes…no, there were more of them… It jumped up at them, just missing Gilmore's head before returning into the shadows. Whatever it was it was big, as big as a common household cat, only ferrel.

The pantry was small but the many shelves of cabbages, tomatoes, dried meats and cartons of fruits and milk provided ample hiding spots for small critters. Usually the ambrosia kept creepy crawlies at bay, but now he saw the leaved vine at the back half eaten on the floor.

Suddenly he saw the shadows move again. Moving out from below the shelves into the light. They were rats…giant rats, all coming out from beneath the shelves and now advancing on the two warriors. "What the fu—"

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— **DRAGON AGE—**

 **Author's Note: Please comment and review, it's my first attempt at High-fantasy so I wanted to start with something seemingly easy with Dragon Age, one of my all-time favourite gaming series next to Assassin's Creed.**


	4. The Start of Every Adventure

**Chapter Two**

— **THE START OF EVERY ADVENTURE—**

 _ **R**_ ats…giant, feral rats as big as a domestic house cat with red bulging eyes and a drooling sneer, growling angrily at those who interrupted their breakfast. Artha and Gilmore were back to back, their swords drawn and Fang moved into a battle-ready stance with his head close to the ground, his own growls matching the rats' in animalistic ferocity.

They were coming out from amongst the shelves and sacks full of grain. Circling them like wolves circling a deer. Suddenly another jumped up at them, Artha managed to punch the creature out of the air and Gilmore began ploughing through the horde with his sword, masterfully without so much as scraping the stone floor. Artha did the same, slicing at every giant rat that came at him. They roared quite loudly for any normal rat, like actual hounds themselves.

Fang was doing his part as well, roaring and barking, snatching them in his huge and powerful jaws before hurtling them into the crowd like a trebuchet. Artha didn't think he'd try actually eating one of them, he could get sick.

They were at it for half an hour now. After they dissipated back into the shadows, Fang led the charge to hunt them all out again. Thankfully their size made it difficult for them to hide once they knew what they were looking for and in no time they had a large pile of giant dead rat carcases which now presented a new problem. He looked at the heap of black leather-like fur, dripping blood and besides feeling like he needed to hurl, he was now confused at what else to do with them. Should they tell Nan, or the teyrna?

"Giant rats? It's like the start of every bad adventure tale my grandfather used to tell," Gilmore commented. "I've seen larger, coming out from the Korcari Wilds."

 _The Korcari Wilds, that's in the South, where the darkspawn were coming from_ , Artha thought. What really had him was how they came all the way from the Korcari Wilds or why settle at Highever? Again he considered telling the others about this, then again it was more just a reinforcement of what they already knew. This was but another sign of the impending Blight, but maybe he should tell Nan though.

At least now it was clear that Fang wasn't raiding the larder at all. The mabari dog barked proudly, jumping up and down in celebration.

"Well seeing as you've got your mabari well in hand, I'll be on my way," Ser Gilmore announced before patting the young lord on the back and vanishing from the kitchens.

Artha resealed the pantry door and came before the old cook with Fang in tow. She was a short and thin elderly woman with silver hair tied back. Her face contorted into an eternal expression of worry which was in no short part of his. He loved her like she was his real grandmother, like she was blood and it was true to almost everyone at Castle Cousland, or all of Highever for that matter, they were not just people who lived in the country, they were family.

"Huh, there he is, as brazen as you please," the cook boomed in short of utter rage. "Licking his chops after helping himself to the roast, no doubt!" She laughs with a fatal jab of ire, "And makes off like a free thief, he does."

Cath, one of the serving elves had beaten him to the news, announcing she witnessed the presence of big rats that invaded the larder when she came in to retrieve the potatoes for the stew.

"Oh, it looks like the dog's killed them," added Adney, another Elf servant to whom Artha gave a gesture of gratitude for his defence.

Nan was not going to relent however and crossed her arms across her breasts, "Hmph, I bet that dog led those rats into there to begin with." Fang whined and looked at her lopsidedly tilting his wrinkled head as though to plead his innocence further. "Oh don't even start with the sad eyes. I'm immune to your so called charms!"

Still, Fang whined, approaching her with his head bowed down.

Nan sighed and shook her head at him. "Here then," she placed a small bowl of assorted meats before the dog. "Pork bits and don't say that Nan never gives you anything, bloody dog." Fang was ecstatic, leaping up and down probably to try and plant a kiss on the old cook's tired face before jumping back into his prize for defeating the giant rats in the larder.

Artha found it all rather amusing though and suspected his mabari was as equally if not more pleased to appease Nan than the bowl of meaty bits. They were like family and family never stay mad at each other for long. Sooner rather than later Nan would be back to her old self and ordering her staff to make double time for what was lost in the rat invasion. She thanked him for coming to his old nanny's rescue. Artha's cheeks reddened and shyly accepted the thanks.

Then a smile appeared on her face as she went to the tables and started chopping up the steaks. "What about you, my lord," she started, "been keeping safe and well behaved, I hope?"

Artha chuckled as he snatched an apple from a basket as Cath moved past to take them to the Main Hall, planting a quick kiss on the elf's cheek as she did so. "Now why would I say anything but yes?" Artha winked at Nan as he crunched on his crimson delicacy.

"Huh, that clever mouth of yours will get you into trouble one day."

"And quicker wit would get me out of it," Artha added coyly.

Nan could only mumble at that and moved on to plopping the steaks in herbs and sauce to marinate. Artha continued to watch as she prepared, waiting for Fang to finish his indulgences but when he saw he was more a burden upon the kitchen staff he saluted them and lead his troublesome hound away.

He saw the sun slowly begin to drop leaving a shadow over the narrowing street-like passageways of Castle Cousland's exterior. It emphasised the moss on the old grey stones, and in the silence the halls from the kitchen seemed abandoned, almost like ancient ruins if it weren't for the echoes of a thousand marching metal clad men.

Fang scuttled beside him with a juicy bone still trapped in his jaws and they make their way to the atrium where he'd hope Fergus was still around or at the very least where he could ask young Oren where his dad was.

As he approached the atrium he spotted his mother standing in the middle of the path, wearing her nice blue yet causal dress she appeared to be entertaining some guests; a woman, around the same age as her, one who looked quite younger and a man with auburn curls. He recognised two of them but not the younger woman.

He catches a hint of what they were talking about, his mother had regaled them about something his dad had gifted to her from a marquis in Orlais who mistook him for a king or rather. Upon his approach, Artha a disrupted the conversation but not the laughter from both her mother and her guests. She recomposed herself to introduce them to her youngest son. "I take it by the presence of that troublesome hound of yours that the situation in the kitchens is handled?"

Artha shrugged his shoulders, "Nan's head exploded and Fang ate the kitchen staff."

He could see his mother trying to mask her amusement with an unimpressed brow. "Well at least someone's well fed." Fang started jumping around again, offering his bone at the teyrna's feet. His mother merely sighed and shook her head at her son. She then went on to the introductions.

The older woman was Bann Loren's wife, Lady Landra. It was not their first meeting, last was at his mother's spring salon. Artha bowed to her, "Of course, it is good to see you again, M'lady."

"You're too kind, dear boy," the woman was far from shy, even winked at him quite flirtatiously. "Didn't I spend half the salon shamelessly flirting with your?"

"Right in front of your family, too," the curly haired young man added, bemused.

"You remember my son, Dairren," said Lady Landra as the young man bowed to him also. He was a tad older than him he recalled. They had sparred at some tourney if he remembered correctly. Dairran confirmed this and also shared that Artha had beaten the man handily.

The two young nobles gripped each other's forearms and drew in to embrace as men and old friends. At least he might have some appropriate company while he were relegated to the castle.

But the other woman, the younger one whom after tucking her hair behind her ear revealed them pointed as that of the elves. Lady Landra introduced her as her lady-in-waiting, Iona. She seemed to look at him with shy eyes, holding back a blush that crept up without her meaning to which caused Artha a slight bit of pleasure. She curtsied as she addressed the young lord and Artha could not deny, the young woman was rather attractive herself.

They spoke some more, and through Iona's tripping on her sentences he found she was as smitten as he was. However, shortly Artha had to take his leave asking his mother where his brother was. "If he's not with his men, probably upstairs with Oriana," she inferred.

Soon when the other guests disappeared, Dairren told them Iona and he would retreat into the library while Landra took to the castle's towers to gaze at the view of the lands. The Teyrna gazed at the boy with something lost between sadness and motherly pride but she sensed something troubling. "I know I'm being a little bit paranoid, even for me but I have a bad feeling about all this."

Even when he brought up Grey Wardens, Darkspawn and she'd guessed her son's unsaid desire to join, the thought terrified her, but she was also proud, to have a son that would want for nothing more than to be worthy of his name. She knew how difficult it could be to stay behind and watch others ride off, they lived in troubled times indeed. She herself would soon travel with Lady Landra to her estate and keep her old friend company for a while. Naturally she could feel her concerns were subtly seeping as she told him she loved him. Her son smiled and she planted a kiss on his temple before sending him on his way. When it came to love and duty, she found her youngest had difficulty discerning the two, as romantic as it sounded he could not learn to lead without it.

Walking up to the atrium before the Private Quarters he could see Oren jumping on one of the tables, a wooden toy sword in his hand, laughing cheerfully as he swats the blade at a monstrous dragon he assumed. "Ello there, Oren, is that nasty dragon dead yet?"

The boy looked to him with excitement and rushed over to him. Artha plucked him off of the ground and held him over his shoulders and zooming off like he was flying a gryphon into battle. Like Artha, Oren grew up in Highever, mostly in the castle if not the towns outside on occasion. He grew up on fantastical stories of heroes and monsters like the Grey Wardens or great wars in far off distant lands. Oren was Fergus' only child, not much older than eight or nine years-old. With dark hair and a cheeky yet rather shy smile, he took semblance more of Artha than Fergus in terms of mannerisms much to his mother Oriana's relief.

Artha carried his young nephew all the way into the Bedroom Quarters, a hall with five separate bedrooms—the Teyrn's private chambers at the end with His and Fergus' to the left and right as well as a couple of guest rooms. As he passed he bumped into tables, knocking down vases and Oren slashes his sword at the shelf of books, knocking the precious volumes to the ground with a series of thuds and Fang following behind witch equal excitement.

This gets Oriana's attention, leaving the sanctuary of her room to check on the commotion. No she was not surprised to see her son and brother-in-law trashing the place. With her hands on her hips she awaits with impatience, her delinquents to notice her glare and stop.

Swiftly enough they do.

Sure enough Fergus was indeed in his room just putting on his armour, asking his beloved wife for assistance in strapping on his pauldrons. His armour northern armour complimented his frame—tall, broad shouldered, dark hair and a light beard gracing his moderately handsome face. While Artha resembled more his father, it was said that Fergus took on more of their mother's subtle features.

Oren jumps into his father's arms, not minding the coolness of the steel. "Papa, will you bring me back a s'woud?"

Fergus smiled as he put the little fella back down to his mother. "That's 'sword', Oren and I'll get you the mightiest one I can find, I promise. We'll be back before you know it." That last part he said it more to his doting wife, so worried these past few days she'd scarcely sleep.

"I wish victory was indeed so certain," she confessed. "My heart is…disquiet."

"Don't frighten the boy, love." He kneeled down to meet his son, his hand on his shoulder. "I speak the truth." Fergus came to his wife, wiping away small droplets of tears making their way down her cheeks. "Wish me well," he whispered privately to her. Soon his attentions were given to his younger brother, there to see him off.

"Relax, Oriana, no darkspawn will get close to Fergus enough to harm the poor sot," Artha laughed, embracing his brother.

Oriana sighed, reminding them of their mortality. She was right of course, but in the spirit of bolstering morale, as a military general, Fergus understood the appeal of immortality. "I wish I could go with you," Artha found himself saying.

"I wish you could come, it'll be tyring, killing all those darkspawn myself."

"Surely your father wouldn't place both of his heirs in danger," again the voice of reason, or of inequivalent paranoia, Oriana sat herself at her desk.

Fergus agreed, their mother and father had been fighting about it for days. "It's too bad, I could have used you at my side." He took his baby brother's arm and each shared in a moment reminiscent of their younger years. If not comrades in the field of battle, then on the playgrounds.

"I'm going to miss you, brother."

Again, Fergus smiled and his smile filled his heart with joy, a trait from having a suave seafaring raider for a mother. "If it's any consolation, I'm sure I'll freeze in the southern rain and be completely jealous of you up here, warm and safe," he winked and cocked a half smile.

Suddenly Oriana was on her feet as if she'd just been bonked on the head and started rummaging through her troves at the foot of their bed in search of extra fur cloaks for her husband.

"Oi, did you know there's a Grey Warden in the castle?" Artha asked. Immediately it struck interest in his nephew's eyes. He asked if he'd seen him riding a griffon like in the tales to which Artha just shrugged. He then informed them that he was recruiting with his eyes stuck on Ser Gilmore.

"Good for him, I hope he makes it," his brother exclaimed though he suspected a twinge of disappointment at the news. "Though if I were a Grey Warden, I'd have my eye on you…not that father would ever allow it."

"Speaking of father, he told me to tell you not to wait and to leave without him."

The elder Cousland groaned in annoyance and shook his head disapprovingly. "Then the arl's men are delayed. You'd think his men were all walking backwards."

"Rumour is that the battle so far has been successful and that it might not even be a blight at all, just a choreographed assault, a standard darkspawn raid."

"And a large one at that," Fergus inserted, not helping relieve his wife of worry though he coyly smirked, she knew he played on her concerns. "Well I'd better head off then, we'd want to get a head start if we want to arrive at Ostagar within the week. Pray for me, love."

The two lovers embraced and to the irk of both Artha and Oren, passionately kissed each other's lips. "The Maker sustain and preserve us all. Watch over our sons, husbands and bring them safely back to us," she whispered her words into his lips, like a magic charm of protection.

"I would hope, dear boy that you planned to wait for us before taking your leave." Bryce and Eleanor Cousland walked into the room, the teyrn and teyrna both hugged their son tightly.

"Be well, my son," their mother brought his head down to kiss his head. "I will pray for your safe return every day you are gone."

Again, his mother repeated the same chant Oriana had just given, only this time Fergus saw fit to add in a couple more words, "And bring us some ale and wenches while you're at it. Err…for the men, of course."

Oriana looked scandalised at her husband throwing daggers of disapproval. "Fergus, you would say this in front of your mother?!" the Teyrna didn't seem to notice much, growing used to the Northern male customs.

Oren picked up though, and asked what a 'wench' was, "Is that what you pull on to get the bucket out of the well?" he asked inquisitively.

Tactfully it was Bryce that answered his little grandson. "A wench is a woman that pours the ale in a tavern, Oren," seemed reasonable appropriate enough to tell a nine year-old. "Or a woman who drinks a lot of ale."

Shocked, Eleanor smacked her husband on the shoulder in reprimand. "Maker's breath, I swear it's like living with a pack of small boys!"

 **...**

Slits in the walls on the left just below the rafters allowed the fading sunlight to illuminate the chantry in such a way that it looked serene— a torch of warm light in a grey and cold world. Three rows of seats on both sides of a royal green rug that ran down the middle of the chamber to the altar standing atop elevations.

Two men, soldiers, stood on their knees, shoulders drooping low in humbleness to the Maker. Mother Mallol stood at the head to recite scripture as she would, and bless those who sought out the Maker's protection.

"Maker, prepare a place for us," she announces. "Redeem our world from sin and forgive our transgressions." She saw him approach and smiled warmly, making a slight gesture for him to join and come closer. "Creator of the Sky, the Land and the Sea, hear your people in our time of need."

"Maker watch over us," they all responded, including Artha who was himself a fervent believer of the Chant.

"Let no man have cause to fear the shadows. Let their souls be lifted upon your return," Mallol continued reciting. "So let it be."

Again, the faithful responded in earnest and obedience. "Maker watch over us all."

When she was done with her duties and the other soldiers retired, the Chantry Mother conversed with the young man. They spoke of the coming days of uncertainty. He had a bad feeling about his father and brother leaving. Something just didn't seem right.

"It troubles me to see cares hang heavy on such young shoulders," Artha didn't need to be humble to agree with her statement. It wasn't modesty but his own fears that hung so close to an impending regret. It was meant to be Fergus that took the teyrnir if Maker-forbid something were to happen to his father, and seeing it handed over to him instead he felt like it was final, like it was taboo. Mallol seemed to sense this and lowered his troubled head, planting a soft kiss on his temple. "Your father does well to put such trust in you." The young man was hesitant, but nodded in thanks for her consoling words. "There now. I'll be keeping a vigil tonight. You're welcome to come."

* * *

— **DRAGON AGE—**

 **Author's Note: I don't know why but when I was playing the game, and this story is based upon my noble human male character, I always pictured he'd have a Scottish accent, maybe sounded like Sean Bean. I would love for him to voice the Warden in future games if they ever choose to include him as a character.**


	5. Cousland

**Chapter Three**

— **COUSLAND—**

" _ **W**_ e counted perhaps ten thousand strong and that number may rise by the time we get there," Duncan was dire but he may have missed an opportunity to give hope for the coming battle. It had been centuries since the last Blight so most would not be too open to believe it could come again. "Normally the darkspawn stay in the Deep Roads and allies at Orzammar report it bodes ill that so many have risked the surface."

Bryce's face scrunched up as he focused on the map. Arl Eamon had yet to mobilise his forces from Redcliffe though he heard reports a few small battalions traversing the mountains. He had a really bad feeling about this, nothing but silence from the western hills. He groaned impatiently, but not from the headache forming out of concern for Eamon, but of the bickering coming from his friend and guests. Rendon Howe was not an overtly tactful man, especially if in the presence of people he lacked respect for, in this case it was a Grey Warden.

They had been standing around that table all afternoon discussing strategies and politics surrounding their next viable move against the enemy darkspawn amassing in the Southern Wilds.

"Well…I understand the first battles have gone easily."

"Indeed," Howe interrupted, his arms crossed in a pretentious stance. "Are the Grey Wardens sure this is even a Blight and not simply some large darkspawn raid?"

Duncan looked a little impatient but Bryce marvelled at the man's restraint. He looked Tevinter but there was a slight Highever accent to his otherwise Free Marches dialect. "No archdemon has been sighted as of yet, my lord," Duncan placed his hands on the table, staring grimly at the map with a look of despair on his face. "But with my entire soul, I believe this is a Blight."

"King Cailan took you at your word?" If anything made Rendon Howe doubt the lad's abilities as a ruler even more, it would be this. He chuckled faintly though it was plain as daylight and a slight backhand at their new guest. "There was talk that His Grace would not be above going into an alliance with Orlais."

"King Cailan Theirin is an eager young man who has shown great albeit an unorthodox wisdom in responding to the darkspawn threat." But whether or not he believed that, Bryce was unsure. Orlais has always been an enemy in his eyes, people who occupied his homeland. He'd found himself staring at a blade of a chevalier more than once in his day. Needless to say, what Bryce and indeed Rendon had heard, Cailan was a bit enraptured with the Grey Warden legend, and that is why he continues to cater to the order's demands, even if it included allowing Orlesians back into the country.

As he predicted, Howe took to this information with great offense. "That's easy for you Grey Wardens to go along with but us Fereldan-bourns, we fought hard to throw those insufferable ingrates out of these lands," Howe looked fit to explode, his hands balled into fists until they neared red. "And where were the Grey Wardens then?"

The answer to that was exiled from Fereldan centuries prior. Nonetheless Rendon was not above voicing these concerns to the Warden Commander and Bryce looked ready to scold his friend for that brash insult. But again, Duncan held his calm and collective demeanour. "He only repeats what we've all heard. Whatever the reason, I'll take his support. The priority is defeating the darkspawn before they threaten all of Fereldan."

Alas Rendon sighed. "I wish we shared your faith, Warden, I suppose we shall see for ourselves once we arrive at the king's encampment."

To this Bryce agreed. He came away from the table, feeling around his sword arm which he still bore the marks of his past battles and they were taxing at times. He was getting weary of the fight. During the Orlesian occupation Bryce fought in the Army of the North alongside Arl Leonas Bryland of South Reach. He and Rendon had fought at the Battle of White River, from which only fifty rebel soldiers escaped alive. He himself had injured his arm while coming to Rendon's aid when his friend crossed blades with a chevalier.

It was the most catastrophic defeat dealt by the Orlesians. They suffered greatly, but for their valour, the then-Prince Maric awarded them each medals. He wondered if he still had them.

He looked at Rendon talking to some of his guards in hushed whispers and immediately his thoughts travelled to Bryland, something he had confide in him one day after Rendon's marriage to Leo's sister Eliane.

"I mourn for our losses, Bryce," he said in little more than a mutter as they walked through the streets of Denerim. "I've spent these past few days in my study, in the libraries, observing history and trying to make sense of it all…" he took a deep sigh and looked at his old friend. "We've all changed, Bryce."

"War leaves scars, Leo. None of us are the same man as we were before. You, me, Rendon, we've all grown and given our circumstances we've all had to."

Leonas smiled but it was a sad smile, a mockery of the bittersweet taste life had left behind. "War didn't change Howe…it claimed him. Bryce, I think Rendon died at White River."

Leo was against the match but relented in the end, though he refused to attend and in the end Bryce and Eleanor were the only ones to come and witness their vows. But seeing Rendon now he could not help shake the feeling itching away behind his neck. He could see his behaviour had change, he was quiet, more so now, and often times he caught him scowling at him. Rendon had become rather abrasive which had earned him some trepidation from his peers.

Bryce was brought back to his halls, staring at the fire. The Great Hall was used for receiving guests and a place where his household would dine together. On the outside it was enclosed with grey stone and bearing old Towers Age architecture with wide doors made of oak and iron which opened to the courtyard whilst a much smaller side door lead to the dimly-lit gallery.

Suddenly Rendon appeared beside him offering him a goblet of wine. He wore a smile now and his demeanour had somewhat changed from earlier. He seemed in high spirit, a smile Bryce had not seen for an age. "I've just received word that the roads are clear and my men will be here by dawn tomorrow."

"That's good news. We've delayed long enough and I want to be there when the lords meet before any more drastic decisions are made."

For a moment, they remained voiceless, Bryce studied Howe closely and found his friend difficult to read. He looked to the teyrn of Highever then back to the fire, "So you agree then, about Cailan?"

The teyrn of Highever treaded carefully. Inexperienced or not, Cailan son of Maric was now King of Fereldan, by birthright they owed him their allegiance. However, that allegiance came in many forms, one that Bryce was hoping the young lad would be open to was advice—the wisdom of the lords that served him. While he had a high standing hatred for the Orlesians, he believed that only through unity could they achieve victory if this were in fact a Blight, even back during the Occupation, the Couslands were a strong believer of unity. Despite Elethea Cousland's attempt to establish Highever's sovereignty from the crown, or maybe in light of, Bryce's family have done well to live by the oath of fealty they took to the Calenhad in Fereldan's founding, even if it meant an uneasy alliance with a former enemy.

"The Blight effects all of Thedas, Ren," he answered. "I assure you that Orlais' only interests transcends border control. Actually Cailan's quite formidable if he could even get an audience with Celene."

Again, there was silence but Bryce could tell that his friend had a thought trying to dig its way out, if he'd let it perhaps in the form of a violent yet amusing rant. "If I'm being blunt—"

"Oh have you not already been blunt all evening, old friend."

Howe ignored him but Bryce didn't seem much surprised. "I believe Cailan is a fool, a child playing at being a king," Howe sneered at the fire. "If you ask me I'd much prefer Loghain be Maric's successor, said as much too. Thank the Maker for Queen Anora."

"Alas Cailan is Maric's son, not Loghain and not Anora, and he is also a moral and idealistic ruler, willing to make alliances with former enemies for the good of the realm," he gestured to the map of Fereldan, a little agitated at Howe's so casual treason.

Howe seemed more disgusted by the reminder but he decided to fall silent.

He remembered much of his time with Cailan however brief their meeting. He was a good lad, but often quiet, almost calculating and possessed a subtly to his wisdom. It was strange but the king often reminded him of his own son. Artha was a lover of books, of stories and the history of things, much like the king who inherited this trait from his mother. Suddenly all of his thoughts turned to his youngest.

When Artha entered the Hall from the side entrance Bryce was hit with nostalgia. He looked so much like him at that age, down to his innocent eyes filled with wonder and positivity. He remembered this morning, remembered his son playing in the fields outside the castle amongst the pointed trees that stood bordering his domain. He was riding his stead like a free peasant, without a care in the world, and the smile on his face...rue the day he sees that falter.

He brought the goblet to his lips and let the sweet and fruity taste of Antivan wine fill his mouth. There was something in the air, it gave him a chill on the back of his neck like some omen of ill. He'd only ever heard of such things happening in songs and tales. The last recorded Blight happened around four hundred years ago and it was marked with the emergence of the archdemon Andoral, the Dragon of Slaves. As Duncan had admitted though, there has been no archdemon sighted.

"It's going to be hard, Rendon, I'm not going to sugar-coat it for you. To work with people we've laboured and lost to dispel, and even without them, a battle with darkspawn isn't going to be a walk in the park."

Howe's nose scrunched up, his face showed disgust but minimally as he suddenly walked away from him. "Don't patronise me, Bryce. I know the workings of politics, I know what's necessary in order to achieve success and I won't shy away from it. But I also don't think throwing in with Orlesians is a smart move on our king's part. It's like spitting on the very memory of Maric or Moira."

Suddenly Bryce felt the need to raise his voice at him, "We are not bending the knee before the Empress of Orais, Howe. It is a mutual alliance formed to answer the threat posed against the entire world!"

The Arl of Amaranthine glanced down at his wine chalice with disinterest and after finishing the last drop rose his goblet to his friend and moved on light feet toward the chart table. Bryce could not believe him, his blazing glare followed his old friend as he made his way now out of the hall. The Teyrn groaned, his headache blown out of the realm of manageable pains and he took a seat by the roaring fire. He did not stay there though. After cleaning out his cup he went outside, to seek the only company that didn't pain him.

The sun was setting on Highever, his castle was already in the thralls of a cool shadow and he already felt that coolness seep through the walls. A slight breeze passed by his legs, blowing auburn leaves about and he shivered. He could hear one of his lieutenants shouting out orders, the front gates to his castle opening and the clopping hooves of northern horses walking out.

His own stead was at the stables; a white stallion he named Strider, beautiful with a mane of silver that sparkled in the light. Bryce combed his fingers through them, smiling at the creature's response.

The stables were quite well tended by his household, cleaned regularly and left no stench that seemed displeasing to his guests. Something he suspected Strider much appreciated. He sighed, feeling his own heart slow to a walk and he was quite content just as the horse was, sighing as he massaged his head. He was much too relaxed and lost in his own dreams to notice someone behind him. He felt a woman's soft and delicate fingers brush up beside his. They overlapped and he found himself grasping at them.

"Should I leave you alone with your thoughts, or take you away before they trouble you further?" She said, eyes on the horse as it shook his head.

Bryce smiled down at his wife, at his beloved Eleanor, her face so radiant it filled him with such joy and warmth, it always did. Her emerald eyes regarded him for a while and he knew she knew that there was something just eating away at him inside. "I remember my mother telling me stories of the Blight. Though it seemed so distant to me then, it gave me nightmares, especially once I discovered they were true. And now people are throwing that word around again, whether to assert caution or in blatant denial. It frightens me."

"Is that what troubles you?"

"Among other things vying for my attention."

She came behind him and started to rub his shoulders in a soothing rhythm and soon after, started grazing the back of his neck with her breath. Suddenly Bryce turned around and captured her lips in a passion filled kiss. She started pushing him, directing the away from the horse and further into the stables until Bryce had his woman against a wooden fence of a stall.

When they finally broke apart for breath, he looked into her green, dreamy eyes. They had grown, aged well, the pair of them, and shared in those great and beautiful moments and would fill any man's wounded heart with contentment. As he stared longer at her, she blushed and with one last chaste kiss she pushed him slightly away and started to undo the laces at the front of her dress. Bryce felt his head glazed by the sight yet his vison became clearer as he watched the light blue dress slide into a pool around her feet. His breath had become hot with anticipation, with the sun's beams illuminating her figure, making her appear almost divine. Even now, after years of marriage, he still found her so ravishing, beyond words. He felt his member harden at the spectacle. He approached her slowly, carefully as though he were afraid this was all but a dream and he would soon wake up. She grinned at him, not nervously but invitingly, she held her arms to him. "Would you not now dispel your troubles and allow yourself some measure of happiness?"

The Teyrn came closer, his fingers trailing her arms until they rest on her cheeks, her fair skin was warm and smooth and her body had shown rather little sign of wear yet if he looked closer he could track down their history through her slender form. Every scar, every spot and every mark their two children left for her—Bryce considered himself a very lucky man. "It's as I've said, M'lady. Your joy must come first."

Bryce then started to trail kisses all over her, gently planting them from her neck eliciting a ticklish giggle and as he began to get lower, they became moans of pleasure. Those moans became longer, a vessel for escaping breath as her husband got lower until he reached her clit. She tousled his hair, taking hold of his head for support.

As his tongue explored her canal his hands wander up to grasp at her breasts, fingers playing with her erect nipples. Eleanor's chest was heaving, her breaths becoming more erratic as she felt herself nearing climax.

When she did reach her end, she looked up to the roof with her eyes shut, and no sound could escape her wide opened mouth. Bryce ascended and she immediately smacked their lips again, this time far more passionate and needy. He felt her tongue massaging his and as they were locked in this wrestle, he lifted her heart shaped arse onto the fence and allowed her hands to fuss him out of his breeches. Bryce chuckled at her impatience and knew she also found that strangely amusing. All Bryce could do now was gaze and admire her as she concentrated on stripping him.

Once he was free of his pants and his tunic opened to expose his naked chest the couple went back to each other's lips, already red with heat even as he penetrated her. They grunted and moaned through their kiss and Bryce begun a steady rhythm, measuring his thrusts with her blissful sighs.

Soon when they drew away their lips, joined only by the forehead with their eyelids open they became locked in each other's gaze, lost in their lust and Bryce began to quicken. He grunted, feeling her amazingly tight cunt massaging his erection perfectly.

Eleanor cursed as she held onto her husband, her left hand came to rest on his jaw, caressing it lovingly and their eyes intensified. She could not help but smile at him, the sensation of his pulsating cock deep inside her. Words could not express how happy she was to be there with the father of her children, with the man that has loved her throughout thick and thin.

"What?" Bryce asked her about her smirking and it just became wider.

"I love you, Bryce," was all she said.

He laughed and continued to fuck her harder. A few more thrusts and they moved away from the fencing, and he lowered her onto a pile of hay. With his hands now planted onto her breasts he started to piston into her. Then Eleanor pulled him down and climbed onto his waist, making sure not to pull his cock out and continued their love-making for another fifteen minutes before Bryce felt his climax bubbling up.

"Let me give you something to look forward to on your return, my love."

He reached up to caress her body, her skin like silk under his wandering fingers. His hands went to her mounds again and continued to fondle them gently, then with one more thrust he grunted and emptied himself into her womb as he'd done on countless occasions. Her own screams of ecstasy were like harps to serenade their love, her chest heaving forward and arching her back had looked so erotic and that combined with the look of total bliss that her face contorted into had driven him over the edge and he came yet again.

When all was then done, Bryce fell to her side and the old married couple lay in each other's warm embrace for a few more minutes of bliss and content. He held his beloved wife over his heart and had their hands interlocked above his navel.

"I spoke to your son earlier," she said suddenly, alone in the stables except for the horse. Eleanor picked her head up and looked at him with eyes that wrestled with her feelings of pride and sorrow. "He looked like he was ready to run off and pledge to the Grey Wardens."

"And that troubles you, love?"

His wife sighed but ultimately shrugged. She wasn't sure what to make of it. They had entered into a dangerous time. The Chantry called it the Dragon Age, marked as an age of strife and violence and turmoil. "I'm not usually one to persist in shackling my children to our feet but I just hoped for a better life for them, Bryce. Something of security where we could grow old and watch them play with our grandchildren."

Bryce nodded. "I know, Elle, I wish for that too." He looked at her again, somehow she seemed different with the afterglow of their sex. "But fear not. I told Duncan and he seemed to accept my decisions. He's here for Gilmore, the boy from the Bannorn farmlands. Artha seemed rather disappointed though."

"He can be disappointed all he wants, Bryce. Until your safe return he isn't leaving my side."

"You don't think he's ready?"

She caught herself before any hasty words came from her mouth and just sighed. "He's never seen how a battle truly is, Bryce. Never known how ugly taking a life actually is. Reading about war isn't the same as being in one and…I don't know perhaps it's just an irrational side of me that wants to keep some semblance of innocence in him as much as I can."

"No, I get it. You have no idea how afraid I am for that boy, for all of us. But sooner or later the King will ask for aid…and being a Mac Eanraig means he'll answer."

She laughed in rebuff. "He's more a Cousland than anything, charging headfirst without seconds thought seems about your alley."

He feigned hurt and relaxed his body when he felt her head return to his chest. They stayed like that for another few more minutes but talking about their son had brought them back to where they were. Bryce helped her get dressed and after they were ready headed up to see Fergus before he left with the rest of the troops.

They walked, hand in hand as they made their way to Fergus' chambers. Like his children, Bryce grew up in these halls, grew up with most of the staff, apart from the arches in the foyer every stone was ancient.

Highever castle was a huge complex spanning several acres and protected by two massive walls. The Couslands had held this castle as a seat of their teyrnir since Sarim Cousland took it from Conobar Elstan, the Bann that was murdered by his own wife Flemeth.

They had almost lost it to werewolves once, Bryce remembered that story. It kept him up all night but for some reason when his mother came to the part where his family united the north to drive them out of their lands, it really eased his mind and heart.

Yes, the Couslands have always looked to diplomacy, to unity to win the day. It was only with a united force with a singular struggle that pushed them forth out of the darkness. When Elethea fought for Highever's independence they lost, that was because Fereldan was always destined to stay a united realm. That was why he was open to an Orlesian alliance, he was weary but he could accept the king's decision.

If Howe was any indication he also knew what Cailan would soon face when he broke such news to the other lords.

When they got to the bed chambers they could already hear the commotion inside, Artha was playing with Oren and probably annoying Oriana to no limit. He smiled down at his wife and held her closer as they came to the door. This was his family, this was worth entertaining an alliance with former enemies.

…

 _ **A**_ lone rider dashed through the open fields following the road to Castle Cousland. Fear gripped his heart tightly like a babe for its mother's suckle. He bore on his arm a band bearing the Cousland crest for he had some troubling news that might concern the Couslands in the north.

 _Maker give me strength,_ he muttered under his breath. His horse was starting to tire, but the sight he beheld was enough to give himself some strength and if he were forced to make the rest of the journey on foot then he would, but the swiftness of a horse was a much needed aid. He had seen siege weapons, not many but a fair few but they were not heading south to Ostagar, but to Highever's capital, he needed to warn the teyrn.

He released a sigh of relief when he got to the top of a hill and finally saw Castle Cousland in the distance. _Maker thank_ —

A powerful force threw him off of his horse, an arrow had pierced the back of his shoulder. He was only able to touch it before getting up and bolting for the forest to the right.

He only made it to the first tree when he took out an axe and maybe face his pursuers. It didn't take long though for another arrow to hit him in the eye and pin him against the trunk.

* * *

— **DRAGON AGE—**


	6. Wallflower

**Chapter Four**

— **WALLFLOWER—**

 _ **A**_ blanket of darkness spread across the sky and the silver moon illuminated the night. Music and drunk laughter filled the Main Hall as Highever soldiers toasted their last goodbyes to their loved ones. In normal circumstances Bryce would be out there joining in the festivities with his men, but now he felt he needed to have as clear and level a head as he could manage. Fergus had already taken the bulk of his men southwards to Ostagar while a small handful would accompany him and Howe's men in the morning.

He sat at the dining table overlooking the hall, with his family already mingled in with the crowd of knights and foot soldiers and other notable noblemen and their families. Even Aldous had come to join in the small festivities though he did so with such a frown on his head that it was mere comical.

Within the partying crowd Artha walked towards an elvish girl with very light brown hair in a sun yellow gown, and handed her a goblet of wine. She beamed at him as she accepted but as she took a sip he found she was probably not too keen on the strength of taste. "Apologies, wine from the Free Marches is pretty strong."

"Not at all, my lord, it is the taste of wine itself that I am not quite accustomed to," she replied a little embarrassed.

Artha drew in closer to her. "So tell me, is there anyone special back home?"

"No longer. I have no time for such things."

The young lordling gazed with surprise, "Surely you're joking. Someone as beautiful as you?"

Iona's cheeks turned pink and in the brightly lit hall she knew she could not hide her embarrassment. Lost for words to her giddiness the young lady-in-waiting tried to thank him for his complement, "You flatter me, my lord," she managed. "I am not so pretty that I have suitors lining up for me, if that's what you mean."

"I haven't seen many elven ladies-in-waiting," Artha then asked.

"Lady Landra has been very good to me. I am lucky," she answered courteously, looking to the head table where she saw her mistress laughing with the teyrna. "If I may... your mother has no ladies-in-waiting, herself. Is that usual for a noblewoman of her rank?"

Artha again drew closer, she could feel the warmth of his breath and he the smooth touch of her cheek. "If she found a maid like you, I might encourage her."

He made her fluster some more, though she found the attention welcoming she drew away to compose herself. "You are… very kind, my lord. I am nobody special...you make me blush." She looked into his eyes now and found herself coming closer, but then remembering herself she drew away again. "My family have been in service to hers for many years and Lady Landra elevated my place as a reward for our loyalty. I hope this position might pass to my daughter."

"You have a daughter?" Artha questioned a little off guard.

"Forgive me; I shouldn't have mentioned her." Iona's eyes widened and she began to fumble around, thinking somehow she had managed to offend or reject her host. After all, what advances he made was not unwelcomed, rather if she could hope she'd even return it. The young man simply caught her hand.

"It's quite alright," he replied warmly. "I imagine she has your beautiful eyes."

Iona beamed brighter at him. "She…does. Many people say she looks a great deal like me," she said, but then her face started to fall. "I am the only one who sees her father in her."

It was a sombre moment but to Artha it did little to dampen the night, or the growing warmth rising inside him as he conversed with the elven lady-in-waiting. "And you don't hope for more for your daughter?"

"I have risen very high for my people and would not tempt fate by wishing more." They continued through the evening without a hitch, soon her mistress required her attention and Artha retired to his father's side.

As for Bryce, ever the wallflower in the corner, watching his halls come to life filled him with joy. From his watchtower at the head of the table he could see the true faces of his company, Ser Ardent flirting with one of his kitchen elf maids here in the castle. Ser Gregor Cleat an Antivan who became one of his best soldiers, along with his fellow knights playing one of Howe's guards to a drinking game that Cleat was clearly winning. These were what reminded him of his heritage, he was Fereldan, Ardent was Fereldan though not by blood but bond for he himself was Orlesian who married into a Fereldan house.

Ser Jon Taper was from the Free Marches yet here he was far away from home as a guest of his house and would soon ride with him as his bannerman. None in Highever questioned the company he often kept or at least was open to yet so many were quick to criticise Cailan's intentions for partnership with Orlais. The teyrn was exasperated by the mere thought. He knew he'd never be rid of it soon, especially once he arrives at Ostagar and the pack of splinter minded lords gathered there.

Artha came and hugged his father and poured himself some more wine from the giant tankard behind him. Bryce looked to his son, proud and amused. Watching his lad charm some elven girl, making her blush pink brought about memories of his own youth though Artha looked clearly the more charismatic. "Been doing a little soul searching eh, son?"

Artha raised his shoulders and grinned. "Well I _am_ your son, father."

"Have you ever thought about it son, marriage, fathering children?"

The youngest Cousland son stayed silent, maybe in thought for he had never truly entertained such thoughts so realistically. The landscape was family, but the prospect of actually attaining his own was rather out of place for him and there wasn't really a dire need, after all Fergus was heir. "Lady Iona has a daughter, I think she already has a life to live and it may not involve me."

"You really are a hopeless romantic aren't you," Oriana walked over to them with a jug and poured his teyrn some more Free Marches wine. "The quiet one indeed. Though, I don't know, is it unheard of for a human to wed an elf?"

Artha spied Iona in the crowd again. He poured down his cup with a massive gulp, "I don't know, I'll ask." With that, the young lord marched over to the fair elven maiden.

Oriana laughed, impressed as she patted her father-in-law on the shoulder and retreated to her seat. At this time Eleanor had joined him in watching their son woo a poor maiden into his heart or his bed. "Your son grows more like you with each passing day," she remarked, kissing his cheek and then resting her head on his shoulder. "It's something that sometimes troubles me."

"I'd be more concerned with what traits he inherits from you, my love," Bryce chuckled remembering their brief session in the stables. He remembered when they first met and how terrible it had gone. He was a decorated military commander and she a renowned sea raider.

But they worked well together. The Orlesians tried to take back the city of Denerim by sea, Bryce aboard Eleanor's ship managed to drive the invaders away. They then met again after some months of correspondence by letter, at the formal coronation of King Maric where he proposed and she accepted before he even finished. She was a battle-maiden, war and battle was in their blood, was in Artha's blood whether they liked it or not.

"Fergus should make good time and reach Ostagar no more than two days," she informed him. "I take it you will be up tonight?"

"As though anyone could sleep with words like darkspawn and Blight invading their minds at night."

When soon Eleanor left his side to be with Oriana, helping her see Oren back to bed, Grey Warden Duncan came to him but only to keep away from a larger crowd seeking his attention. He was much too old in his mind to entertain courtship, something absent from his life since joining the Wardens.

"You look worried, Duncan," said Bryce. He'd noticed that the aged warrior was the only one to have abstained from beverages besides water and last he checked abstinence was not a tenant of theirs…but then again, he knew rather little. "You don't like Antivan wine?"

Duncan did not answer straight away. Through his beard he smiled at the teyrn and answered, "I feel more comfortable when I'm in my own state of mind, full consciousness. As to what troubles me, my lord, that there is still no word from Redcliffe's forces," he said grimly, eyes drew out to a distance.

Bryce nodded, for he too gravely worried about Eamon Querrin the Arl of Redcliffe, one of the most loyal and honourable men he had ever known. It was unlike him to go so long without responding to a summons, especially from the king. "Perhaps we will see when we depart tomorrow. I'll send a messenger to Redcliffe and hopefully it is but small difficulties."

After some time the Grey Warden bowed and made leave but before doing so inquired of the library that had once belonged to Bryce's father. It was an impressive collection with tomes as old as the Dark Age. Duncan asked if he had leave to inspect the many volumes housed there. "A bit of light reading," he said when asked of his intent.

"Does that 'light reading' involve darkspawns and world ending Blights?" Duncan only smiled at him and then he bobbed his head giving him access. Though it also left an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach that Duncan would see a need for his father's old collection. "What do you hope to find amongst my father's old and dusty hobby?"

Duncan shrugged but his gaze lowered pensively, then when he looked back to him they became grave, but a small smile was tried shortly after. "Some illumination, my lord." With that, the aged Warden left the feasting hall escorted by a guardsman. As for Bryce, he took his seat beside his wife once more, and while she was enthralled with her own company, Bryce released a breath he never even knew he was holding and remained silent.

With Artha who was relentless in his pursuit had opened up a question about Iona's thoughts on humans. She looked up at him with a shy grin, pink in both cheeks. "Do you find humans attractive?" he asked her, part flirtatiously and another part mere curiosity, "Because the reverse is true enough."

She giggled and now did Artha realise the setting was not entirely private. He had come to her while she was still in the company of other maids and ladies-in-waiting who each were in fits of titters. "Some humans, yes. Without question," Iona replied happily. He had whispered something in her ear and she turned even brighter, gave him a hard and seductive look before vanishing into the crowd with her friends.

Artha was then joined by Dairren who patted him on the back for his success in wooing such a beauty. "Ever the lady's man, aren't you, my friend," he laughed loudly. "I just came from the library, might I ask whose collection it is?"

"It was my grandfather's," he answered taking a cup of warm mead when it was passed to him. "But I often go there for some peace every now and again. I think my favourite is The Dragons of Tevinter by Brother Timious."

Dairren commended him for his choice, talking on how Timious drew on the connection between the dragons and the darkspawn. They had a common interest Artha thought, Dairren and he. Books were a passion and Dairren had once requested to his father for admittance to join the Chantry as a scholar but he wouldn't allow it. But people like him needed to find an avenue that benefitted not just him but his family as well. "Unlike you, I am no child of a great house," he said, drunkenly pouring more wine into his cup. "If I can rise within the ranks of your father's service, it is more than I could normally hope for." Now he would be riding out with the army come morning, off to fight monsters in a far and distant part of Fereldan seldom seen before. "Actually I'm a bit surprised that you're not riding alongside your brother."

"Oh don't even go there, Dairren. At least you aren't tethered to boring desk duties of little to no valour rewarded."

"Well, if you're interested, I shall record what I can during the battle. My writing skills nay be lacking, but I hope to convey a true sense of the warrior's experience," Artha and Dairren clashed mugs and chugged down their vigour. Tonight was for them, for the young, and the young would never squander it.

…

 _ **L**_ eith could not stifle the yawn that escaped his lungs. He was struggling to keep focus fastened to the perimeter. Stretching his arms across his chest he looked to Brom, his partner in the task, standing there tall and stiff, eyes glued to the open and vulnerable fields surrounding the South-eastern wall of Castle Cousland. "Don't you ever get tired?"

Brom smiled but did not deter. "Well when you've been doing this for as long as I have, you get used to the long and cold night," he explained, noticing also his young colleague shivering against the stone battlement. Brom was indeed a rather old man now, about the same age as Teyrn Cousland himself with greying hair cut very short and less than tidy beard covering his features. He had seen much in his days and he would be lying if he said he wasn't tired, but so far he could not feel the creaks in his fingers as so many of his friends had and he was content with that.

Now Leith was the new generation—soft and brittle, yet when it counts, as strong as steel chains, linked to one another. "The night is still, and quiet," the young man commented eyeing the forest trees in the distance.

Brom suddenly faced him, leaning on his longbow for support like it was a staff. "It's not living up to your expectations then?"

"Don't think me ungrateful, Master Brom. It was my mother's request that I take a guardsman position here at the castle, out of harm's way." He smiled at the old man but it was waning. "All of my friends, the men in my family are off to fight in the south for Fereldan. I feel somewhat ashamed to have been left behind. Bereft of honour and valour they're sure to acquire out there."

"You cut yourself short, young one," consoled Brom. "The honour rests in service to our king, to our country and to the Maker Himself, not the type of service rendered. You are doing your part as your friends and family are doing theirs and don't think yourself the lesser man for caring about the thoughts and woes of your mother."

Leith nodded thankfully at him and they stood in silence for a while, contemplative in their task until he asked whether the stories coming out from Ostagar were true. "In my lifetime I have never in truth seen a darkspawn before. I doubt many have seen any for an age but I hear tell that the dwarvan kingdom of Orzammar contests with such beasts constantly down in the grand tunnels they maintain. Do you believe what they say about these darkspawn?"

Leith didn't know and shrugged. He himself had never seen the beasts but he was Andrastian so what stories the Chantry preached about Tevinter mages offending the Maker and becoming darkspawn had to be true in some respects. The dangers of magic was real enough and his father swore he'd witnessed a mage corrupted into an abomination at the Circle Tower at Lake Calenhad. "All I know is that they are monsters forsaken by the Maker, thus they be no friend of mine."

"Well, let us pray you never have to face such beasts then," Brom remarked as he walked over to a sack on the floor where his wife had packed for him some bread and a jar of golden honey.

The two men stayed in silence, listening to the whistling of the night winds. They then started talking but not of any grim tales. Brom spoke of his youths wishing to be on adventures. How he had met his wife Lydia after the battle at Southron Hills of 9:2, how they had built their little homestead from scratch with the lands given to him for his services. He spoke of how though sad he was that they could never have children, that he was happy with his life.

"Never go through life with resentment or regret, Leith," the wise old man shared in his wisdom. "If you do you will reduce your living into a half-life."

The young man seemed not to hear him. He studied the deepening twilight in that half-bored, half distracted way that marked most youth. Again he yawned and Brom sighed with sympathy.

"Go dear boy," he said and approached him. "Go down and celebrate for a while, I'll permit it but don't forget to come back—"

The experienced guardsman was halted, his face contorted with shock as the horrific realisation dawned—an arrow had penetrated his skull from the left side. Leith got up, his own bow in hand as he caught the man. He looked around and saw nothing, and was about to scream for help. Then, a sound in the wind, the breaking of the silent air with a whoosh that was barely audible itself…it was a blur that overtook him and the arrow had hit its mark, his right eye socket was now its home…

As the young man fell to the ground with a thud, another archer climbed over the battlements and then all was silent again.


	7. A Silent Night

**Chapter Five**

— **A SILENT NIGHT—**

 _ **D**_ arkness cascaded his room as the pale moonlight hid behind the clouds. Artha opened his eyes and in the darkness could faintly make out the wooden beams that held his ceiling. On his back his left side was exposed to the cool air, uncovered by his blanket, yet on his right he felt the warmth of another form. The sleep depraved young man gazed at the body with her back to him. Artha reached out and gently caressed the curvature of her side, trailing her skin until his fingers rested upon her delicate bottom which caused her to stir in pleasured moans.

"You're up, my lord?" Iona cooed and turned to face him. "Perhaps I should head back to the guests quarters before someone notices."

"Oh, I was more hoping for another round," Artha responded by drawing her closer.

"As much as I would like nothing more, my lord, I do not want to overstay my welcome. Someone of your stature…and a handmaid elf from some back alley alienage?"

"I don't believe I've ever been to Denerim," he confessed. "At least long enough to explore outside wherever my father's business takes him. What about you, do your family live in your lady's estate?"

"Well, Lady Landra's manor isn't half as large as your castle, my lord, so my family lives in the Alienage."

For some reason this made him quite sad and Iona placed a hand on his cheek to stroke the bottom of his ear with her thumb. She told him it was fine. She didn't so much enjoy living there, only that she felt it a better alternative, a place of relative safety. "Your daughter," Artha spoke, whispers in to the skin, "tell me about her."

"Amethyne, we named her after my grandmother. She is a bright girl, a clever girl, and I do wish more for her the same as I also fear for her. There, in the Alienage, we do not…stand out quite so much," she said plainly. "In an Alienage, my daughter learns what it means to be elven…as much as possible," she then sighed and her gaze looked distant. "So much of our history is lost. There is this song I know, that our elder used to sing to us. I only know the King's Tongue version though." He gave her an interested smile and allowed her to proceed.

 _Elder your time is come_

 _Now I am filled with sorrow_

 _Weary eyes need resting_

 _Heart has become grey and slow_

 _In waking sleep is freedom_

 _.._

 _We sing, rejoice_

 _We tell the tales_

 _We laugh and cry_

 _We love one...one more day_

She gave him a pained and sombre look before brightening up again, leaning in to kiss him on the lips and then climbing on top of him.

"What happened to not wanting to overstay your welcome?" he impishly reminded her. Iona only smiled down at him, both were eager to let sleep escape them yet again when a knock came to his door. Fang was the first to rise up, barking angrily at the portal.

Suddenly they all heard scuffling from the other end.

"Something is wrong," said Artha, rising to his feet.

Just then, one of the servants came bursting in. "My lord, the castle is under a—" his words were cut short by an arrow protruding from the inside of his mouth. Eyes wide in disbelief as he dropped to the ground, revealing behind him a man with a long bow standing in aim. He was getting ready to fire again. Artha quickly dived to the floor, pulling the servant inside and out of the door's way while Fang barged into it to seal it up.

Artha hastily put on his breeches and brandished his sword. The assailants did not wait for an invitation to enter and in moments, managed to break down the door. A man in leather armour rushed in bearing a one-handed battle-axe in one hand and a light ash shield in another, roaring his fury. Artha was able to duck and dodge his eager swing. That was when in a spilt second he spotted the archer at the back getting ready to loose. He slashed with as much force as he could gather and his sword ripped through the man's axe and shield. Artha then grabbed the man by the jerkin and pushed forward using him as a shield himself.

The man yelped in pain as his comrade stuck him with arrows while Artha, in a rush of adrenaline yelled out and once he got to the archer, ran his sword through both of them.

His hands were shaking, staring down at the lifeless bodies. He had just killed two men, but he would have to kill more. Two more attackers entered through the entryway. There was a big one, carrying a big blood-soaked axe as tall as himself, then there was another, a smaller warrior with a short sword and axe. Artha went for the big guy while Fang charged at the dualist.

The axe-man was huge, towering over him, Artha doubted he'd survive such an encounter for long. He needed to end it quickly, and luckily the man's size and weight of his chosen weapon had impacted his movement immensely. Artha would be foolish not to take advantage and stuck to a lower guard. After the man's swing with his left now unprotected, Artha slices across but it was only able to open up his armour. Artha cursed under his breath and the man seized his own advantage, knocking his sword from his grasp and grabbing the young man by the neck.

"You die, my lord," he said and made to strike, when suddenly, the long shaft of a steel tipped arrow embedded itself into the man's clean shaven head.

Artha was startled when he saw his mother appear, still in her nightgown except for a leather quiver on her back and black leather braces on her forearms. "Darling, I heard fighting outside and I feared the worst!" she ran to them and Fang having left the dualist's face a few metres away from the rest of him. "Are you hurt?"

"I'm fine. How about you?"

She sighed in relief. "Thankfully they never made it past the door." Soon Iona came and joined them now fully clothed yet fear and worry still on her face. "A scream woke me up," Eleanor told them but then paused and suddenly her face contorted into horror and she ran past them. Artha followed her to Fergus' chambers and suddenly he felt his own heart stop.

The door was ajar, open to the night's breeze and there on the ground, a heaped mess of blood.

" _ **NO!**_ " the teyrna ran into the room and dropped to her knees. Oren lay still, close to the door, probably didn't know what was going on and thought he was answering the requests of their guards. Iona had to cover her mouth and escape the scene before her. They had cut his little nephew, a child, right down the middle—the work of that large axe-man. But across the dark and quiet room chambers was Fergus' wife, left in a prostrating on the carpet now soaked in her blood. Her clothes were stripped off of her. From the white substance seeping out of her rectum and her womanhood, as disgusting as it was to even think it, the scratches and bruises left on her body, they knew the ordeal she faced and it rocked them to the core. They had raped her.

Oriana looked like she was reaching for something, a small knife on her drawers but it had been far out of reach…such cruelty. But what got to him, made his stomach churn was the state they had left her face. Once a radiance of beauty, a testament of her sweet, kind nature, was left smashed in, nothing more now than a pile of blood and brain matter. "By the Maker. What manner of fiend slaughters innocents?!"

Artha walked beside her and tried to wrench her away. She could not stay there, neither of them could. As gently as he could, he brought his mother to her feet and they came out of the room, she didn't need to see this. Eleanor hid her face in her son's shoulder as she wept. As he cradled his mother he spotted one of the men's shields, the one he had cut apart, a sigil of the walking bear over a coat of orange. They were the colours of Amaranthine and the Howe Family.

"These men," he started saying. "These were Howe's men."

His mother wiped her tears away, her eyes now replaced them with bloodshot red. "Why would Rendon do this? He's not even taking hostages. He means to kill us all!" She shook her head and glanced only for a moment at Fergus' room. "Oh poor Fergus… Why would Howe betray us like this?"

She was shaking, her grip on her bow was tightening and she looked about ready to blow into rage. But she posed a good question. Why would Rendon Howe do such a thing? He could not believe it, the very thought was straining all sense of reason and logic in his mind.

His mother then looked about her, concern had returned. "Have you seen your father? He never came to bed," she cried.

"I don't know, mom. Last I remembered he was still in the main hall."

A fire had stirred in her and she straightened herself, wiping the last of her salty tears. "Let's go," she affirmed.

"Can you handle a weapon?" Artha inquired seriously.

To which, the older woman huffed, smiling slightly and took a single arrow from it's resting. "I am no Orlesian wallflower, I am Fereldan. Give me a sword and I'll use it."

In the smaller lounge before the atrium was full of Amaranthine soldiers. Using the element of surprise, Artha and his group made short work of the five there though they were much heavier armoured. They all fell in clatters but it was not over.

In the guest's rooms they found Lady Landra, dead on her bed. Eleanor and Iona felt the sting worse and she found herself apologising to ghosts. Iona came to her and closed shut her eyes to rest, muttering something in elvish.

When they got to the atrium next the sounds of screaming, of thunderous clangs and clashes of steel rang like bells. They speculated that Howe's men must have already overrun the castle. Eleanor suggested that his father would be at the front gates but they couldn't be sure. Either way they were running out of time and dashed toward the south. "If we can't find your father then you must get out of here alive," she stated and silenced him when he made to argue. "Without you and Fergus, the entire Cousland line dies here!"

They ran through the narrow passageways heading for the main hall. Fire was consuming the castle, the flames left behind by burning balls from the sky, siege weapons were in use. They felt the grumbling of battle not far away, their path was littered with the dead of his household and soon a servant came by them. "The castle has fallen," he said in fright. "We need to get out of here!"

"No, we need to stand and fight, Deacon!" Artha sued and gave him a sword he found on a dead Cousland soldier.

The servant nodded and soon enough they were encircled by Howe's dogs. The sigils on their shields provided more than enough motivation for him as he smashed through their defences and slew them one by one. Fang, with the wild fury of his nature ran at them, tearing out their throats from under the layers of armour and helmets. As for Eleanor, it was surprising to him, even as her son, to see his mother engaged in such skilful combat. Releasing arrow after arrow and never missing her shot and when they came too close, her arrows became daggers and knives. She even utilised her bow of which had been fitted with small blades on either end to slash at enemies at close proximity.

They were soon joined by Cousland guardsmen heading for the main hall and clashed with another group of invaders. At first they moved to the library and as it had been shown to them, Rendon Howe's soldiers were not sparing anyone, not even the children in the castle. Aldus' students were all dead, slashed at the throats, or pierced in the stomach. Brother Aldus himself was in his study. Lamps still alight, he sat at his desk with his head rested in crimson and in the corner, and leaning against the bookshelves was Dairren, barely holding onto life. His breathing was laboured as Artha came to him and tried to help but the moment he knelt down beside him, the young nobleman only managed a small smile before his chest breathed his last and became still.

Iona had to stifle her own sobs, her eyes widening as everything just started to settle in. She didn't want to die. Artha drew her in to comfort her but sooner than they should have, they departed. Back into the chaotic air, rushed against their faces leaving them ashen. Then something whistled overhead as a ball of fire split the skies, striking the walls of the eastern passage and causing the rubble to fall towards them. Artha pulled Iona and his mother out of its way, effectively blocking their path to the front gates.

It seemed even mages had entered into Howe's services, spitting enchanting light and fire from their staves. Artha began to wonder what promises the traitor made to attain the loyalties of rather politically displaced communities. The young boy had no qualms with mages but when he came upon an angry man throwing thunderbolts at him, he did not hesitate to drive his hardly sharpened blade deep into his gut before slashing his colleague's chest open.

They had made it to the entrance to the hall, a blockade of men hindered them but with his loyal Cousland guards, they pushed forward.

Inside the halls fared no better. Only three or four men left standing including Ser Gilmore who was engaging several foot soldiers with his shield while waylaying any that passed him with his longsword.

He did breathe a sigh of relief upon seeing him and his reinforcements appear. "Your Ladyship! My lord! You're both alive!"

Soon four became nine and the Amaranthine forces occupying their feasting halls were dismantled.

They could not ended it there though. A loud banging could be heard from the other side of the front entrance as Howe's main forces attempted to ram their doors in. "Go! Man the gates and keep those bastards out as long as you can!" he commanded furiously. The Cousland token guard were well equipped, quite formidable armour and weaponry as well as skills to top it all off, but even Gilmore knew that Howe could win the fight with sheer numbers.

Artha and Eleanor came beside him with Iona in tow. They shook arms and Artha inquired to the situation.

"I was certain Howe's men had gotten through," he began. "When I realised what was happening, it was all I could do to shut the gates. But they won't keep Howe's men out long."

Four men came to bar the gates while the rest made ready their arms. The enemy's blows were getting harder, stronger, and it was clear that they had gotten a metallic battering ram to finish the door off.

Gilmore then turned to his lordship, to his old friend. "Artha, if you have another way out of the castle, use it quickly!"

Artha shook his head at him, the faces of his nephew and sister-in-law haunting his thoughts. Howe's men did get through. "No, I'll help you hold the gate—"

The young guardsman held onto Artha's shoulder firmly, shaking his head. "My lord, please, you and your mother must escape. You cannot stay here."

Artha wanted to press further, remind him perhaps that he was a Cousland, that his place was leading the defence of his castle, but his mother's shaking hands blocked him and he saw the fear in her eyes, pleadingly at him. His world was falling apart in front of him, his mother's world. He looked back to Gilmore and asked him where his father had gone.

"When I last saw the teyrn, he'd been badly wounded," Ser Gilmore informed them. "I urged him not to go but he was determined to find you."

"He went towards the kitchen," Gilmore suddenly remembered. "I believe he thought to find you at the servants' exit in the larder."

He then felt Iona tugging on his armour, telling him they had to leave but still, Artha relented. "Gilmore, you and your men need to come with us. We all need to leave—"

His words were left unfinished as an arrow flew through the room and hit the young elvish maid servant in the head. Artha heard himself screaming as he caught her, now lifeless body in his hands, but whatever mournful wails he tried did not have the time to leave his body as Gilmore grabbed his arm and pulled him to the door they had entered from. "You need to go, Artha!"

"I said that we will all go, so grab your men!"

The guardsman thought for a moment but in the end sighed and nodded, and gathered his men before their ruling lord. "After you, my lord."

Artha took one more look at Iona and his fists clenched. She was an innocent, Oren was an innocent, Orana, Aldous, his household were innocents! He gestured and they left the Cousland halls that would soon be host to intruders…

Only Fang and his mother had stepped outside when they heard the doors slam shut behind them.

"No!" Artha banged on the doors demanding re-entry but all that he could hear, faintly amidst the chaotic racket from behind, " _Maker be with you, old friend…_ " He continued to bang on the door but his booming was soon drowned out by crashing, followed by the screams and yelps of the dying.

He leapt from the doors with his heart racing a thousand miles a minute. Yet he could not give time for rest or respite. The three raced down the passageway, mabari hounds at their heel. They headed for the chantry but found even more intruders within. With much difficulty they managed to slay them all or more accurately, Artha threw the mabaries that launched themselves at him back at their masters to feast upon their masters. During the confusion, Artha took his mother out and locked the doors behind them—the screams amidst the carnivorous roars joined in the chaos that surrounded them. Artha could not deny he felt some pleasure in them.

He followed his mother down the labyrinth until they reached a lone door of birch with a metal frame rusting of age, yet it was not without some level of care around the hinges and lock. Eleanor opened the door easily enough but was appalled once they entered. Not even here did their people find solace. Two guards lay dead upon their posts, yet they did not go down alone and had taken several Amaranthine soldiers with them.

Strangely, Artha had never been here before. The room was empty except for the bodies of course, and a rack of weapons in the corner. He then followed his mother who came to a bare grey stone wall to the left of the entrance. She pushed a couple of stones and to his utter bewilderment, the stones parted like curtains revealed a metal door behind them.

"This is the Cousland vaults," she said to him. She then produced a key dangling by her neck on a chain and unlocked the seal while Artha helped his mother open it wide. "Within is housed ancient Cousland weapons and armour."

A cold a dark chamber, still and as dead as the kitchens and study. Teyrna Eleanor lit a torch to reveal the many family treasures that lay inside. There were armour sets used by the first of the Fereldan Couslands, even armour used by his grandfather Teyrn William Cousland during the Fereldan Liberation.

Artha was so overwhelmed, to find out at what seemed like the end, of such a hidden thing, almost a complete secret. He'd never been to the family Treasury, only told that deeper histories dwell therein and when he was old enough and ready would he see its contents. Stranger still he had hoped they'd find his father inside as well. Eleanor then came to her son, in her hand was a sheathed longsword.

He held the sword, under his inspection he found the cross-guard carved to resemble wings, outstretched from a middle that bore the family laurel motif. When he drew the sword forth he noticed the blade looked significantly older than the hilt which was added later when Elethea joined the unification of Fereldan. The blade itself, platinum and though old, did not lose much of its shine. Some more winged emblazing on the bottom of the blade in beautiful symmetrical harmony. When Artha completely unsheathed it, holding the sword with both hands, he found the hilt fit his hands perfectly and he marvelled at its lightness.

"This blade has served our family for generations," his mother told him, her voice now dire as though she were to test him of his conviction. "Darling, it cannot fall into Howe's hands it should be used to sever his treacherous head!"

All Artha could do was nod at his mother. His thoughts circled back to the people he'd lost. Nan and Aldous, and Oren and Oriana…it would not be a hard burden to ask of him. "I want Howe dead," he growled.

"Then survive, my son…and visit vengeance upon him."

The young Cousland led his company to the kitchens, hoping that there were people still inside. There was no one there, but the adjacent servant's quarters revealed far worse.

He felt himself near sobbing as his knees gave in. In the darkness, Gran lay dead on the cold hard stone floor surrounded by her servants' corpses. They had gotten knives and pitch forks to drive out their attackers but it proved less than effective. Artha could not bring himself to look any longer at her mangled body, contorted on the ground with nearly every bone in her body broken and twisted into unnatural directions. Her face still revealed the horrors she witnessed before her end.

Gran had practically raised him and his brother. They had seen her as their own grandmother who filled their boring nights with tales and adventures and their stomachs with warmth and nourishment, even at her age, she had a spring in her steps as she scuttled around the kitchen barking orders.

Despite her frosty exterior, she was kind, and fair, and good. Even her servants, though had the brunt of her fury to contend with on a weekly basis, had grown fond of her and she of them. Now they were all dead and Artha didn't know what else to do for them.

The kitchens were silent, the mess of the previous battle was hidden away by the dimness though he could see much of it, the tables were flipped and the shelves in clatters but there was no movement. Clearly Howe's bastards found nothing of value in the kitchens but life to stamp out. Then a rustling came from the pantry and immediately Artha and his mother bolted for it. "Bryce!"

…

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **This one didn't go completely according to my plans. Mostly it was because I had not wanted Iona to have died or that by having her sleep with Artha, that she wouldn't die the way she did in the games. I wished I could have done more, maybe either had the option to save her as well, maybe she could have been recruited? Or maybe been able to do something with her daughter like give her charity or sponsor her as a knight or something.**

 **I hope in the future that BioWare decides to remake Dragon Age Origins for next gen consoles with Inquisition style graphics and designs, maybe even the option of a fully voiced Warden? For some reason I've pictured my Warden as having a Scottish accent, maybe sounding like Sean Bean or James McAvoy.**


	8. The Teyrn of Highever

**Chapter Six**

— **THE TEYRN OF HIGHEVER—**

 _ **P**_ ain. The only thing that passed through his mind was the excruciating pain spreading in his body, numbing his senses to anything else. But his ears were still working and he could hear the armies behind him and the screams of his household. He desperately made his way to his quarters where he hoped to find his wife still sleeping or better still to find his room empty and his Eleanor's bow and quiver missing.

His legs now had given way and he slumped to the ground, still pressing the wound in his rib. Safe to say that Bryce's day did not go the way he'd thought.

He had gone to the library to check up on his Grey Warden guest and Rendon Howe was accompanying him. They stayed there for a while before being called out with a summons to the courtyard. The closer they got though, the more louder it became, this sound of clashing and barging. One of his officers informed them that an unidentified hostile army was attempting to breach the gates. Bryce gave orders to return hostilities back and set up watch on the side towers as well.

That was when he heard the whirling of an arrow approaching but by some miracle, a blade had come in between him and death, Duncan had appeared, his sword shining in his hands and with deadly precision had actually cut the arrow down.

Bryce looked tot eh battlements and to his shock he saw the archers all aiming their bows at him. He shouted to his men, "Shields up!" and they complied, defending themselves.

That was when Rendon Howe, his close friend and comrade, and Howe's private guard pulled out their swords and slit the throats of the nearest soldier. Slaughtered Bryce's own guards as they attempted to shield themselves from a barrage of arrows coming in from the skies. He didn't even get a time to ask him in dismay and shock what was happening.

Bryce lunged at the Amaranthine guards managed to kill one but soon enough found himself overwhelmed. Men were coming in over his walls. Not a large amount but enough to turn the advantages of having a castle into a disadvantage of guerrilla warfare.

"I have to get to my family," he told the Grey Warden. "I have to get them to safety!"

"Lead the way, my Lord but we must hasten!"

But they didn't get far before being forced into the main hall where Gilmore and a small team had managed to bar the main entrance with pieces of timber and the strength of their own hands alone. "My Lord, the castle is surrounded," cried the guard. "Siege weapons at the east wing and front gates!"

"What of the soldiers already inside, have they reached my quarters?"

Though he was busy bracing the doors, he answered his lord all the same as the invading force on the other side started banging harder. "Sorry sir, but I don't know," he said regrettably.

Bryce nodded, patting him on the back. "Do what you can, Gilmore, but if you find an opportunity to save the rest of the men, take it."

Again, the Teyrn and Warden charged back into the fray. They were heading up but when the crowds came in, Highever and Amaranthine forces clashed about them, they found themselves torn asunder. Duncan was still fixed, struggling against some shield bearers desperately trying to break ranks, while Bryce was pushed forward. The Grey Warden told him to go on without him and that they would meet at his quarters. Surprisingly he noticed the way to the bedrooms were quiet and deserted. Yet his heart was in conflict as to what that meant. Had they left already?

 _Howe, you treacherous fool!_

Over his head, the red glow of mortar fire, and before he knew it, the building to his right collapsed outward, an explosion of debris and flames. He was knocked against the opposite wall and the pain that now surged from his arm shocked him like nothing else. He had just broken his shoulder, rendering his sword arm rather useless.

Bryce's left had grasped his sword, trying to compensate for his right but he was not ambidextrous. There was no denying it, his odds were slim. Still he continued up the path, even as another Amaranthine soldier came running at him, his own blade raised above his head and crying out menacingly.

He was at a disadvantage…but he was not dead. With his off-hand he slashed upwards just as the fool came in range and cut the young lad open. Another had appeared and blindsided him and was able to get a good jab at his ribs, tearing his shirt and the flesh right through. It wasn't a fatal blow, but he could already see its outcome. He would soon lose a lot of blood…

 _No, I need to find my family!_

"The servant's entrance!" He recalled the conversation he had once had with Eleanor about a secret entrance in the back of the pantry that the servants often used to get in and out for work. He considered that that was how the intruders would come in but from the outside it was near impossible to see unless you were an elf. No, if Eleanor were alive then she would have brought his son, grandson and daughter-in-law there.

He held his side, the kitchens were as silent as a tomb…no… he was suddenly left motionless. The teryn found himself standing above corpses, bodies that bore familiar faces. Adney, Cath, Millie and even Ted, elf servants of his, all dead at his feet. Ted who was the youngest, who he had consoled about a crush he had on a girl in town. How could Rendon do this?

Then, by the table he saw a woman, and elderly woman lying still on the cold cobblestone floor. They had killed Nan, they had slaughtered everyone!

 _But what about your family, where are they?!_

That was where he was now, in agony, dragging his feet across the coarse ground with desperate need to find his loved ones. Where he collapsed out of pure exhaustion. Physically and emotionally. He was starting to pool in his own blood though his strength maintained, his senses were waning. Was it a hallucination that presented him with hope, his wife's voice calling out for him? Could the Maker be that cruel as to snatch that ray of light away from him?

No, it was them. Bryce saw Eleanor running up to him with his son. "There…you both are," he said, straining a chuckle. "I was wondering when you would get here."

Eleanor did have her bow with her and judging by the state of her had joined the battle as well. Thank the Maker, he sighed as they knelt by his side. He tried to get himself up but gravity kept its relentless pull. His son tried to ease him back down to rest while El applied pressure on his wound but it was pointless—it was mortal.

He tried to explain what had happened to him. That Howe's men had found him first and almost killed him right there. His eyes began to furrow for still, deep in the recesses of his heart he could not accept that his friend would do such a thing. Perhaps it was the work of some demon from the Fade, or perhaps it was the Blight itself?

"Why is Howe doing this?" his son asked him. "I mean…he was your friend, you've fought battles together."

Such an innocent boy, his youngest son was. That was when he noticed it. "Where…where is Oren a…and Oriana…?" But they did not need to answer. Now Bryce felt like the fool, to think that Howe would just leave them be, considering what he had already done by this point. He could hear grumble of more foundations falling. "He can't…get away with this!"

Eleanor tried to help him up again, trying to pretend the gaping hole in his rib didn't disturb her. They'd lived rather dangerous lives in their youth, and she'd seen him with far graver wounds, but somehow this seemed different. They had a family now and in one night it was attacked. They were assaulted in their own homes. "We must get you out of here!"

The teyrn smiled at her despite himself. "I…I won't survive the standing, I think."

A look of readiness and aggression washed over his son as he gripped his sword, the family sword. "Then we will stay and defend you, father," he vowed.

"Once Howe's men break through, they will find us!" Eleanor warned, urging some strength into him. "We must go!"

Suddenly, he felt it quiet…the sounds of battle banished from the little pantry at the back of the kitchens. Bryce felt his head clear again. He looked to his son, to Artha, "Someone must reach Fergus and tell him what has happened."

"We must take vengeance."

"Yes…" the pain had returned and his body now longed for the ground again. "Vengeance," a whisper as loud as trumpets or the call of the Maker Himself. _Vengeance_.

Eleanor stopped him, revealing to him that they planned to flee through the servant's passage. With some luck they could find a healer for him. She pleaded with her eyes that he struggled to accept, what manner of hope she offered, it could not be enough.

His castle was surrounded, betrayed by a snake hiding in a cloak of friendship and he let him in. "I can't make it. Believe me I would love nothing more than to go with you, live to see vengeance delivered…but it isn't so."

"I'm afraid the teyrn is correct." It was the Grey Warden, Duncan appeared from the kitchen, re-sheathing his swords into their scabbards on his back. He spoke with swift breath, not to waste a single second. "Howe's men have not yet discovered this exit, but they surround the castle. Getting past will be difficult."

Bryce could not express enough the relief he felt at seeing him there. He approached them and knelt beside the fallen lord. "You are Duncan then?" his wife asked. "The Grey Warden?"

"Yes, your Ladyship. The teyrn and I tried to reach you sooner."

"My youngest son helped me get here, Maker be praised," she gratefully beamed at her son who could not help but humble himself with apologetic eyes.

Duncan seemed to regard her words with a little more seriousness however. "Thank you, Ser, for saving my father."

"I fear your thanks are premature. I doubt I have saved him."

"Whatever is to be done now, it must be quick!" Eleanor cautioned. "They are coming!"

Bryce remained quiet for a while, still and in thought. He then looked to the Grey Warden, prestige of that military order was grand and so too the men that served, even in their subtlety and secretive nature. "Duncan…" the agony was growing once more and he was running out of breath. His eyes, pleading him, "You are under no obligation to me—I beg you…take my wife and son to safety."

Duncan nodded and took the teyrn's hand. "I will, your Lordship. But…I fear I must ask for something in return."

"Anything!"

The Warden hesitated for a moment, biting his tongue to honour duty over compassion. "What is happening here pales in comparison to the evil loose in the world. I came to your castle in search of a recruit…" He then turned his eyes on the young man clutching the Cousland Family sword. "The darkspawn threat demands that I leave with one."

He was speechless…but he also understood as much as it pained him, as much as he'd fought to protect his son's innocence of the evils of this mortal world…this was the only way. "I…understand."

"I will take the teyrna and your son to Ostagar," Duncan swore, the firmness in his eyes assured his promise. "We will tell Fergus and the king of what has happened here…then your son will join the Grey Wardens."

"So long as justice comes to Howe…" He looked to his son, to his eyes, wrought with confusion and a growing anxiety. "I agree."

Duncan then turned to the young Cousland. "I offer you a place within the Grey Wardens, my Lord. Fight with us."

But then Artha abandoned his confusion and dismay, and anger and rage replaced them. "My duty is to take vengeance on Arl Howe!"

"We will inform the king, and he will punish Howe. I am sorry but a Grey Warden's duties take precedence…even over vengeance."

Duncan was right, but what measure of pride still left in him

"Howe thinks he can use the chaos to advance himself…" Bryce gave his son a stern look, a last binding command. "Make him wrong, pup… See justice is done."

He knew his son was struggling, a conflict had begun within him and he feared as any parent would, that it would be too much upon his young shoulders. It was a father's job to take some weight and lessen the burden for their sons—how could a father do any less?

"Our family…has always done our duty first, Artha," he said, his coarse voice reducing him to whispers so he shuffled closer to his little boy. "The darkspawn must be defeated. You must go!"

 _For your own sake, and for Fereldan's…_

"Bryce, are you sure—"

"Our son will not die of Howe's treachery," this time his wife came forth, allowing her to kiss him, a lasting sweet taste he cherished now more than ever. "He will live," the teyrn said softly into his wife's tear stricken cheek. "He will live and make his mark on the world."

Silently, Eleanor nodded and then turned to their child. "Darling, go with Duncan…go now!"

Bryce's eyes widened with shock and fear, mirroring his son's, "Eleanor, please—"

"Hush, Bryce." The teyrna then pulled an arrow to her bow. "I will kill every Amaranthine bastard that comes through that door to buy them time. I will not abandon you, my love."

"No!" Artha exclaimed, rising up again to stand over them. "I will not let you sacrifice yourself for me!"

But he was met with his mother's steely eyes, determined and full of resolve. "My place is with your father. At his side, to death and beyond. But you, my darling boy…my sweet and innocent child…your duty is to your country now."

Artha nodded, obediently to his mother's request.

"Go pup. Warn your brother and know…know that we love you both," Bryce gave his son a hopeful smile. It was like a ray of light had touched his eyes and he could see clearly. "Do us proud, my son." He gave a nod to Duncan who pulled his son by the shoulder, away from his family. The loud crash of fire and stone echoed around them. Howe's forces may have discovered them.

As they watched their son ripped from sight, their hearts became light. Maker knew what would become of them, but Bryce knew that through His mercy, Artha would be fine, Fergus would be fine.

…

When Amaranthine forces came bursting in, they were barraged by arrows. Eleanor was able to switch her use of her arrows quite fluidly. Being able to stab a soldier in the eye with an arrow before launching it with her bow into another. She had been at it for what felt like hours before even she was knocked down.

They were bought to the Dining Hall. Eleanor struggling against her holders every step of the way. They were then thrown at the feet of none other than the Arl of Amaranthine himself. Hands begins his back, back poised upright in a dignified manner and a large smirk painted his old and wrinkled face. They were not gentle with them, even in the state he was in, the wound had not yet to seal and dry, seeping out from the hole like a leaky tap.

"And so passes Bryce of House Cousland, Teyrn of Highever," Howe sneered with raised nostrils in condescension, standing above them smiling triumphantly. "

"Howe you treacherous snake!" despite his raised tone, Bryce had his temper in check. "The king will not stand for this, when he hears what you've done here—"

"Idle threats do not befit you, old friend," said Howe. "Now, I've combed through the entire castle, and I do send my condolences for your son's wife and child, maliciously used and abused like that…it is just wrong. As well as a couple of other dignitaries and highborns killed tonight, one might question your abilities as a warrior and protector."

Bryce knew what he was doing, hoping to illicit his wrath, perhaps to cater to his own sick pleasure. "Why are you doing this?" he asked solemnly.

Howe seemed to freeze for a brief moment, for a brief moment he saw his friend again. "We've been through a lot you and I, Bryce. I've lost a lot fighting for the crown, I betrayed my father for the crown and what do we get? Some medal to collect dust?" he growled. "We were heroes!"

"And we lived as heroes, Howe!" the teryn shot back. "We were lit, we shone and we burnt out. That is how it works Howe, you knew that and that was why we have families…had families."

"Oh, lecturing me, even with a blade at your throat." He walked up to his dear friend and sniggered. "Bryce Cousland, the valiant, the virtuous and the honourable lord of the northern coast. You have power and influence but you do not use it, a waste." He then looked to Eleanor, still beaten, looking to the floor. "They revere you across Fereldan, they all loved you…so lucky, you and your perfect family. You had such prestige, a beautiful wife and two strapping sons to take your fiefs when you are gone."

"And you don't?!"

Howe seemed to ignore him and continued to pace about his prisoners. "I noticed that your other son, your youngest son, what was his name…Artha was it?" Bryce's eyes darted to him with fear. "I wish no ill upon your boys, Bryce as long as they bend the knee. Heck, I might actually offer my daughter to him and bring our houses together, but in order to do that I must actually find him for he seems to have vanished."

"You killed my youngest child, Howe. What more do you intend to take from me, my life?!"

The arl of Amaranthine broke into laughter and his men obediently joined him. It frightened him, the maniacal glint in his eyes. He began to question their years together as friends and comrades. He thought on Leonas' suspicions that night. Was he right, that Howe had strayed even back then, maybe he was always like this?

Things escalated rapidly however when Howe made a gesture to the soldiers holding Eleanor, one unsheathed his sword while another tore off her clothes. Bryce fought against his own captors, screaming her name and for them to stop.

"Enough of this. Howe!"

"Tell us where your son is and we will let her live."

"Maker's sake, Rendon. I don't know where he is now and by His mercy Artha is far away from here!"

Howe growled again, like a rabid dog doting on how a play thing had been taken away from him.

"I swear by Andraste's grace to you boys, unhand my wife or I will cut you down where you stand!" Bryce warned, but the soldiers did not waver, too excited by the prospects. They threw her to the ground in front of him, exhausted from the beating, naked but for the necklace hanging over her breasts.

Howe locked his eyes on the teyrn as he came behind Eleanor, his beloved wife who was being held by the arms and made to bend over as low as needed but enough that she could look up and stare into the eyes of his helpless husband. "I'm not going to kill you, Bryce. Not until I break you, and then I will have it all and I have friends that would ensure I do." Then with the man and wife screaming for each other, crying out for Andraste or the Maker to save them as Rendon Howe pulled out his cock and ploughed her thighs with violent thrusts.

Bryce tried to pull himself free of the men, more than five of them came to restrain him but he would not relent as he was forced to watch Howe violate his beloved wife. Eleanor was in agony and he felt helpless. Howe called it ' _the spoils of war_ ', that it was fairness for his conquest.

For Howe it took less than a minute to relieve himself within her womb. Both Bryce and Eleanor looked at each other in sobs, their tears nearly blinding them, but it was not the end. Before any of his men could open their own breaches to have their way with his wife, Howe grabbed the nearest sword and with one swift stroke, sliced down and straight through the teyrna, almost perfectly through the middle.

"NOOOO!" his pain alleviated and some strength returned, Bryce ripped himself of the men and tried to catch his wife. The cut started from her right shoulder and cut straight through to her bellybutton. Blood spurted out of her like a fountain, painting the floors in crimson. "You miserable sack of rancid bronto shit!"

Howe chuckled at him. "Finally, some rage from you, old friend," he bent over and caught Bryce's chin, inspecting his raging face, holding an axe to his throat.

A red night for him. That night he had seen red in many variations, mushing together to form an unnatural glowing hue, and amongst all of that he looked down at his beloved wife, he was cradling her head, her beautiful face contorted into permanent shock and he close her vacant, dead eyes where the colour had all but vanished. Was this was all that he could do for her? "I swear it, Howe," he begun with a whisper but as he looked up at the man who destroyed his world, his rage had risen, the cool steel of his axe. "In the name of Andraste and the Maker Himself, you may take our lives this night but whatever is left of my House will have yours. We will make sure your name is forgotten to the winds, that your line will never prosper again, THIS I SWEAR!"

And then…. _black_ …

…

 **Author's Notes:**

 **This one was more difficult for me. If it's too dark especially that last part it was probably because I had just watched Game of Thrones episodes and lore series, if you could not tell the tragedy of Elia Martel greatly affected me, another reason why I simply despised the Lanisters and even Rhaegar Targaryen. She loved Rhaegar, bore him children, loved them as any mother would and what does he do? Steals another woman and runs away. The show just made things worse with the whole annulling their marriage thing. Elia died for nothing. I love the show but it sometimes just makes me way too depressed. I think that is why I still hold faith in the Ned Stark/Ashara Dayne affair resulted to the birth of Allyria Dayne. But I digress.**

 **Please review and comment your thoughts on my writing. Especially in terms of my actual writing, spelling or grammar, or even themes. They are helpful.**


	9. A New Day

**Chapter Seven**

— **A NEW DAY—**

 _ **H**_ e was startled by a drop of water landing on his forehead. His eyes struggling to choose whether to wake or allow sleep to reclaim him. Artha had found difficulty in sleeping, with the clanging of battle rattling in his dreams, breaking the illusions of contentment that his mind was desperate to conjure. That night he was allowed some rest, pressured by the weakness of his tired brain. But now he was awake and he doubted slumber would come to him again, like catching a fly with your bare hands. He wipes the cool droplet away and raises himself up.

Artha woke to the smell and the warmth of a fire. Duncan was already up, or that he had simply not slept that night, roasting some pouch over the flames. They did not exchange many words to each other—Duncan being a man of few words and Artha just could not be fucked. The only sounds came from Fang who barked every night at the moon's radiance.

They had travelled south through the Bannorn, the central lowlands which formed the backbone of agriculture and produce as well as population. Banns control Freeholders who though not considered nobility provided the primary source of income for them in the country—they were essential. More or less _Freeholders_ were commoners who own their own land and often would swear loyalty to a bann or arl more in the name of business. No formal oath of allegiance is sworn thus it was not unheard of for banns to court freeholders away from neighbouring bannorns—as such they tend to ignite feuds that can last for ages.

This even more prevalent in the aptly named the Bannorn. They travelled past Karling in Dogwood and to Calenfort where they were able to replenish their supplies and obtained mounts to ride the rest of the way. "The journey to Ostagar will be perilous especially now an enemy is revealed and maybe hunting us," the Grey Warden reasoned.

"Perhaps if I was permitted to kill that treacherous slug then I wouldn't—"

"You'll what?" Duncan stopped him, the angry young lad refused to make eye contact with him. "You think you would have made it within sword length of him? Surrounded by soldiers with more outside your gates, you would have died—yes you may have even killed him, but you would have sacrificed everything that your mother and father fought and suffered for; your life."

The young Cousland remained non-verbal ever since and spoke only to answer a question with minimal words. For Artha, the wound was fresh, their faces burnt in his memory, a lasting scar that only death or tranquil will remedy it.

Again, the two travellers rode on until they exited the region, taking the southern passage of the Imperial Highway. An internationally-spanning road made of stone and magic by the Tevinter Imperium back when Tevinter ruled all of Thedas, built to connect the old empire.

The Highway is commonly considered an ancient architectural marvel, with great arches erected throughout the roadway, they once had had a white glow to them though now with the passage of time reclaimed by the earth; vines and shrubbery were signs of its losing battle with nature. Where they were now, fortified by the woods on either side. At night when they lit a fire on the edge of the road, Duncan decided to recount to the boy some of his own adventures and experiences, something to pass the time and or elevate the lad's spirit. "So why did you join, the Grey Wardens I mean?"

Duncan didn't answer immediately but paused, starring out into the middle distance with a smile. "Sometimes I forget about that, like another life not my own, then sometimes it doesn't matter." He then took a deep breath in. "I don't think I had much of a choice in the matter and rightly so by my book. I was conscripted, by an Orlesian Commander of the Grey or Warden-Commander for short by the name of Genevieve," again he fell silent. "I don't believe I ever found out why she conscripted me," he whispered.

They slept soundly that night and what dreams that swam around him he could not recall the next morning as the sun climbed over the distant mountains scape and the dew had begun to dry, Artha was kicked half awake. Duncan presented to him a sword.

"Get up, my boy, want you to show me what you got."

Artha groggily shook himself the rest of the way. He looked at the sword but refused, saying he had his own, gesturing to the weapon of his House.

"You don't want to ruin that sword for nothing. This is a practice blade, my lord, already blunted."

The boy nodded and grabbed hold of the hilt and rose to his feet. He was no stranger to the sword and after that night he liked to think he knew a thing or two about combat. Nevertheless he had reservations about sparring with the Grey Warden.

"How about the basics?"

Artha nodded and took a tighter stance, in close manner he would employ the hilt and utilizing thrusts as well as emphases its length offensively and defensively. He remembered the training. Duncan used the same stance and when he swung, Artha parried using the flat of the blade then blocking its slide with the cross-guard. After their blades parted Artha took a high stance, raising his blade above his head and his dominant foot forward. He swung and Duncan blocked and Artha returned to a neutral guard and took a step back.

"Impressive, Antivan guard?" Artha nodded and then Duncan made several movements so swiftly that Artha struggled to keep with, leaving him just blocking and parrying until finally he lost his step and claimed the stony ground. Not the first to fall hard upon the Imperial Highway. Fang just found it all amusing, barking cheerfully as though in mockery. "The Antivan guard was designed for open or guerrilla warfare, my lord Cousland. The idea is to take this guard at passing and for no more than a few seconds, slice diagonally to cut the enemy down and then move on." He then offered his hand to him which he begrudgingly accepted. "It isn't very effective between two locked in a duel."

"What do you call that move you just did there?" Artha inquired.

"That is called a flurry, my lord," he explained. "The trick is to plan every move for you have but a split second to do so. I suggest you become acquainted with the human anatomy and armouring."

"Can you tell me more about…the Grey Wardens?" he asked, during a brief respite. "I mean, not the legends but what they truly are?"

"Well the truth is often what we make it, my lord," he chuckled, offering the young lordling some wine from a metallic flask. "We are a military order unlike most others, but we hold no allegiances to any one ruler or country. We dedicate ourselves only in the safeguarding of all Thedas against the darkspawn. We hold a lonely vigil, my lord. Enduring lives of hardship and sacrifice to protect the world from evil that can never truly be conquered. But among the suffering and isolation is the path of valor, and those of us who give ourselves to the cause are rewarded with the knowledge that we have become something more than we are. We are not heroes, my lord…we are vigilant."

They spent a few more minutes sparring, Duncan improving on the young lad's form, and then they moved on to a quick breakfast before mounting up and riding off down the Highway with their mabari dog on their tail, tongue out of a charming smile. They would be another day or so before arrival at Ostagar, with haste.

* * *

…

 **Author's Note: This one was short but I felt that things would have happened on their journey to the south which I have attempted to recount. Though I suspect most of that time would be spent for the Warden to come to terms with the events at Highever, I refuse to believe no dialogue was shared on the way.**


	10. Ostagar

**Chapter Eight**

— **OSTAGAR—**

 _ **T**_ he Tevinter Imperium was one of the oldest surviving human nation in the world—a magocracy, built upon the power of mages. Before the rise of Andraste and the founding of her Chantry the Imperium's power was unrivalled and its borders stretched across almost the entire continent. As far south as Fereldan and eastward as the nation of Rivain.

In the far south of Fereldan, straddling upon a narrow pass in the hills at the borders of the Korcari Wilds the Imperium had erected a grand fortress to defend the northern lowlands from Chasind Wildling invaders. It represented the furthest point of encroachment by ancient Tevinter into the barbarian lands of the southeast—Ostagar. It was exceedingly difficult to attack due to its naturally defensible position.

However, like most southern Imperial holding, the fortress was abandoned around the First Blight of -200 Ancient and the collapse of the Tevinter Imperium. Historians have even uncovered evidence to suggest it was sacked at least once. As they approached the ruins, Artha gasped; its mighty archways, a staple of Tevinter architecture seen even with the Imperial Highway.

It was a testament of their power, though abandoned, most of the walls still stood, and a titanic Tower of Ishal at the very end looked like it were constructed by giants. The young man was speechless. He had never gone this far south, never seen such marvels.

It was fitting that it would be the site of the upcoming battle, though now they faced a different adversary. Artha had never actually seen these darkspawn before save through his imagination and nightmares conjured by Nan's fantastical stories.

Ostagar was made up of two structures; the Western Fortress and East Watch where the Imperial road turned in through the side of the structure and the Tower of Ishal stood brazenly over the ruins. They rode their horses through the gatehouse and handed their reins to a couple of pages for the stable. Artha couldn't stop looking up—the walls seemed to dwarf them, leaving him almost intimidated. Surely they were safe here from the blighted monsters.

To their surprise, a man was approaching them, escorted by two guards. This man, tall—well taller than him at any rate, raising himself with his arms behind him, an air of regal power. He wore armour of glistening gold, great armoured shoulders that bore the crimson hounds of House Theirin, who held the kingship of Fereldan since the Exalted Age.

"King Cailan," Duncan announced, bowing slightly before the young man, with his forearms crossed over his heart. "We didn't expect a—"

"A royal welcome?" the king finished smiling coyly at him. "I was beginning to worry you'd miss all the fun!"

"Not if I could help it, your Majesty."

The king's smile seemed to widen in excitement. "Then I'll have the mighty Duncan at my side in battle after all!" he cheered. "Glorious!" Artha soon caught the young king's eye and he moved to address him. "The other Wardens told me you've found a promising recruit. I take it this is he?"

Standing before the ruler of his country, Artha started to feel rather star-struck, his joints had stiffened. Now standing so close he had a better look at the young ruler. He was perhaps a few years older than he with long, blond hair tied in the same style as his, framed a soft yet chiseled face and decorated by a light stubble. He was young for a king and as his peaceful rule could be testament of his privileged and protected upbringing, he was likely new to battle, yet Artha could glimpse in his grey irises a subtle wisdom in contrast to how most of his subjects viewed him.

Duncan cleared his throat in preparation to introduce him but Cailan stopped him with a simple gesture. "No need, Duncan," he said then turned back to the young lordling who immediately straightened up. "You are Bryce Cousland's youngest, are you not? I don't think we ever actually met."

"Yes your Majesty," he bowed his head low. "My name is Artha."

"Your brother has already arrived with Highever soldiers, but we are still awaiting your father's arrival."

Artha paused, his grief once again gripping him, the anger. "He's not coming, your Grace," he trembled. "My father died a few days ago."

"Dead?!" The king's eyes widened in shock at the news. "Duncan, do you know anything about this?"

The Grey Warden Commander sighed, taking in a deep breath before he recounted the events that led them there. "Arl Rendon Howe of Amaranthine has shown himself a traitor and laid siege upon Highever castle. The teyrn and his wife are dead. Had we not escaped, he would have killed us and told any story he wished."

King Cailan began to pace about them, processing this devastating turn. "I…can scarcely believe it. How did he think he could get away with such treachery!" The young king the turned to the youngest Cousland son, the boy's head lowered, his gaze not meeting his. "As soon as we are done here, I will turn my armies north and bring Howe to justice," he placed a hand on his shoulder as he vowed. "You have my word he will hang. I know that will not bring your family back, but Howe will not profit from this."

It fell short to his liking but Artha could do in his situation other than take what he could. The young king then gestured for them to follow as he led them across a wide bridge past the Tower of Ishal to their right. The bridge hovered over a deep ravine with a few acres of open field stretching southward where forests dominated the wilds. They passed into the Western Fortress atop an adjoining hill where Fereldan forces had set up temporary residency within the fortress' spacious courtyard and battlements. Hundreds of tents were pitched and everywhere he looked Artha saw soldiers in suits of armour of many kinds and styles. He even saw a couple of mages conversing with the other warriors as though the Circle of Magi did not exist. Perhaps it was the absence of Templars, he thought.

"No doubt you wish to see your brother," said the king. "Unfortunately, he and his men are scouting the Wilds."

Artha looked up at the ginormous Tevinter statues guarding the gate but he could not shake the bitterness his wonder brought. "I am not eager to tell him, your Grace."

Again, the king expressed his grievance and sorrow, bobbing his head in understanding. "Of that I have no doubt." They reached a large pavilion to the left that bore banners at the entrance of two red mabari hounds rampant upon a golden field—sigil of House Theirin. It was the king's tent. "You will see him again once the battle is over, I am certain. The darkspawn are numerous but they aren't infinite. We have won so many battles already and we'll overpower them before long." He then offered his hand to which Artha responded in kind, grabbing hold of each other's forearm, an unspoken oath of brotherhood. "I apologise but all I can suggest is that you vent your grief against the darkspawn for the time being."

Artha and Warden Duncan saluted their king as he ventured into his tent complaining about boring strategy meetings with Teyrn Loghain. One of his guards however was ordered to escort the two men to the cook for some breakfast. As they made their way through the encampment they were greeted with some inquisitive eyes and some staring with admiration, clearly meant for Ser Duncan.

"Does it ever get tiring, ser?" the guard asked him. "The fame and all that?"

"Frankly dear boy, I see less of it where I go."

Artha looked around him and noticed some air of difference in the attitudes seen in the soldiers as compared to other battle encampments he'd seen in the past. "The others— the atmosphere here doesn't seem all that tense. It's not as if the Blight is some incredibly dangerous threat which could encompass the world."

"Well, it is as the king said; we've won three battles against these monsters already. I guess the others are somewhat confident...well too confident if I'm honest," said the guard glumly. "His Grace isn't even sure this is a true Blight. Nor do I for that matter. There are plenty of darkspawn on the field, but we've seen no sign of an archdemon."

Artha chuckled. "You seem somewhat disappointed."

The guard sighed, passing around a bowl of warm onion soup. "I'd hoped for a war like in the old tales. A king and his men riding with the fabled Grey Wardens against a tainted god!" he chuckle at that thought, like nostalgia washing over his weary eyes. After passing some bread they ate, revelling in small talk about their lives in Fereldan or at least Artha and the guard did, Duncan remained quiet, in thought with worried brow. After the meal the man excused himself and returned to his post by the royal tent.

It was just Artha and the Warden at that point and he lead the boy up a rampart to an open battlement. On that plateau housed a small band of warriors that looked similar to Duncan in some respects. Emblazed on their chests were twin golden griffons, addorsed with elevated wings maintaining a branch fesswise was shared throughout the ranks of Grey Warden soldiers. Artha couldn't help it and ran to every one of them to introduce himself though most were quite busy in their own things.

"What the king said is true. They've won several battles against the darkspawn here." Yet Duncan did not seem very reassured. The king didn't seem to take the darkspawn very seriously. "Despite the victory so far, the horde grows larger with each passing day." Duncan then walked over to a balcony overlooking the ravine. "I know there is an archdemon behind this. But I cannot ask the king to act solely on my feeling."

Artha came to join him, forearms leaned against the stone bannister, strange to say but the scenery the sun illuminated a beautiful canvased green forest. "Why not?" he asked. "He looks like he holds the Grey Wardens in high regard."

"Yet not enough to wait for reinforcements from the Grey Wardens of Orlais," Duncan stifled a chuckle. He knew that Fereldan was always going to be suspicious about the Orlesians, especially so close to the end of their occupation. Then there was Cailan's relationship with them…in particular with Empress Celene; a scandalous rumour thought its truth may yet see the light of day. The Warden looked up to the sky, hoping to connect with their Maker in his growing despair. "He believes our legend alone makes him invulnerable, but our numbers in Fereldan are too few. We must do what we can and look to Teyrn Loghain to make up the difference."

Artha then asked what was to be done next to which Duncan simply eluded to some Grey Warden initiation ritual. "Wait, am I the only recruit?"

"Actually there are another two other recruits here already, waiting for us to arrive." Then when Artha tried to ask about this ritual, the Grey Warden simply assured him that he would learn more about the ' _Joining_ ' as he called it in good time. In the meantime Duncan suggested he find the rest of their comrades and prepare the ritual. "There is also another Grey Warden in the camp by the name of Alistair. When you are ready, seek him out and tell him it is time to summon the other recruits."

The young man nodded and saluted before leaving while Fang stayed behind. Artha couldn't explain it but now, given free reign, he was especially overwhelmed by the prospects ahead. So much to see yet also so little, constrained to this small encampment, bustling with life as it were, reminded him of the market at Denerim.

He spoke to some soldiers, or specifically the ones that camped with mabari dogs similar to Fang. 'Ash Warriors', they called themselves. Fierce warriors, patron students of the Dwarven berserker, fighting on pure rage which he said allowed them to fight with their hounds. They mentioned that darkspawn blood was poisonous though not always fatal. Some of the warhounds even looked a little ill; the Kennel master that cared for them told him that they were a result of contact with the darkspawn blood. He knew a remedy but such a cure came from a rare flower found deep within the Korcari Wilds.

…

What drew Artha next was a section of the camp which was guarded by Chantry Templars, one of them warned him that the mages were not to be interrupted. Over the Templar's shoulders he could see men and women in light cloth robes with long rods of varying styles and materials, arms waving about and some sort of light surrounding them. He was intrigued, he'd never really seen a mage before, not in this manner with their magic displayed in the open like that. Apparently they were performing some ritual, their spirits had entered into the realm of dreams.

Artha excused himself and complied. But again he was captivated by the mages, one of which, an elderly woman stood outside the site, arms crossed, back reclined against a tree that sprouted from the courtyard.

"Greetings, young man," she said when she noticed him staring. "You are Duncan's newest recruit are you not?" Artha was only slightly taken aback for it seemed as though everyone was aware of who he was or at least that he was a candidate for the Grey Wardens. She even complemented on the fact that Duncan was not a man easily impressed. The woman was indeed old, but her figure revealed none of lag or much sign of decreasing health. The only tell of her advanced age was some wrinkles across her forehead and under her eyes as well as the grey of her hair, tied back in a bun.

She wore traditional robes like the ones used by the other mages though hers were orange with gilded embroidery and golden buckle with a Chantry motif, holding two belts that went around her waist.

Her staff were of two serpentine figures wounding around each other with their heads meeting at the top to hold some sort of gem.

The woman made her acquaintance, introducing herself as Wynne, a Circle mage, which meant she was part of the Chantry system. Magic wielders were often treated with suspicion, for anyone to hold such innate, raw power would be dangerous and as the Chantry preached magic's hand in the corruption of the Golden City. Alas, Wynne made sure to treat these situations rationally. "To defeat the darkspawn, we have to work together," she said. "It's not an idea everyone seems to be able to grasp."

"Have you yourself slain one, a darkspawn I mean?"

"Stragglers, yes... not the vast horde the scouts speak of." Then she asked how much the young lad knew about the connection between the darkspawn and the Fade.

All he knew really were the Chantry tales or scholarly research. The _Fade_ was where one's spirit goes when it leaves the body, whether in sleep to dream or to die.

"It's home to many spirits, some benevolent while others are less so. At the heart of the Fade lies the Black City."

This tale Artha knew quite well. In many if not all sermons Mother Mallol would mention or elude to the Tevinter sacrilege where Imperial Magisters tried to enter the Golden City physically and the Maker cast them out as darkspawn, starting the First Blight. He wondered what became of the revered mother. All of those people, Mallol, Ser Gilmore, even Barrow, and all the people that might have escaped the fall of his Household. Artha released the pain in deep sighs. "The Chant of Light says many things," he said darkly.

"It may be allegory, meant to teach us that our own evil causes human suffering," the older woman offered as she placed her staff down against the tree and took a seat beside her.

Artha nodded and all of a sudden he was reminded of a story that Nan used to tell him. An old tale about a war dog named Hohaku, born of royalty to a tribal chief. He grew up a fine, strong pup, given everything and destined to be the partner of the chief's eldest son.

The young hound became arrogant, prideful, taking food from his kin and warning them; in the manner of dogs that is—that the chief's family would punish them if they tried to attack him. Soon the time came for the chief's son to choose a war hound. Many people came to the chief, whispering of Hohaku's bullying though with each complaint the chief saw only strength and pride and sent them away.

But as his son grew the chief watched more closely, after all his boy would one day depend on this dog. If the humblest of his people could not trust the hound, how could he? Strong or not he needed a reliable companion for his son and chose Hohaku's brother instead.

Ashamed but without remorse, Hohaku darted for the chief in a fit of rage, biting his hand. Hohaku was struck, cursed and chased throughout the village but none would offer him shelter devoid of scorn and hatred. Nan said that before the chief had reached him, the tribe had torn Hohaku apart.

"Now, what should you carry from this tale?" Nan has asked an intrigued five year-old Artha.

"How you treat the least is remembered by the greatest so one must not abuse their power?" he answered, also taking a sip of hot coco. Hohaku took advantage of a position he thought he was entitled to, much like the mages who thought their power alone could grant them entry into the Maker's domain.

He had not realised that he had drifted off and before long Wynne gave him the most comforting of smiles. "At least it's something to ponder," Artha finally said.

"Yes, occasionally it is wise to contemplate one's actions. Well I'm certain Duncan has more for you to do than talk to me." Artha nodded but soon his attentions drifted as another robed man walked past, though he seemed different, vacant and passive, his expression was blank and he had a symbol on his forehead—the radiant sun of the Chantry of Andraste. "One of the Circle's Tranquils." Suddenly Wynne's became saddened and allowed the young man to excuse himself of her company.

Soon another man, this time a soldier or a rogue by the look of his gear flagged him over. Rugged beard and dark hair he did not look out of the ordinary. Clad in studded, leather armour with a lot of pockets and compartments hidden around his body. "Well, you're not what I thought you'd be," he remarked once Artha reached him. A woman he was with sighed, seemingly a little vexed and marched off.

"Oh, and what's that?"

"Me, I was hoping for a comely lass with golden hair and terrible eyesight," the roguish man laughed. He then reached his hand for him and told him his name was Daveth. "About bloody time you came along. I was beginning to think they cooked this ritual up just for our benefit."

It dawned on Artha that this man must be one of the other recruits joining him. "Yeah, what do you know about this ritual?"

"Well I heard a couple of Grey Wardens talking and I'm thinking that they plan to send us into the Wilds," he informed him so casually. Must have been used to this sort of thing. But for Artha, this was all pretty new territory.

"Aren't there barbarians in the Wilds?"

Daveth shrugged. "Chasind barbarian, yes. Cannibals…and witches too! My home's not far and I've grown up on tales of the Wilds, even been in there a few times myself. Scary place."

To the western side of the fortress outstretched over the stone barriers stood a wall of dark trees. The Korcari Wilds were infamous, its mysterious and threatening nature incited many tales of lost children snapped up by barbarians or monsters. Travellers passing Highever to get to the Storm Coast would say that even at the entrance of the dark forest, they could hear the crunching of bones and flesh being gnawed upon by the beasts. They certainly scared Artha a lot, and as if it weren't scary enough, throw darkspawn into the mix and now, even as an adult, he'd expect his nights to be plagued by nightmares.

"Anyway," Daveth sighed to break himself of the silence. "I expect it's time to get back to Ser Duncan. That's where I'll be, if you need me for anything." And then he was off again.

Artha didn't know what else to do but made his way to the ruins of Ostagar's Main Hall. The guards and other soldiers informed him that that was where he'd likely find this Alistair. He wondered if he'd know what the man looked like.

* * *

…


	11. So Let It Be

**Chapter Nine**

— **SO LET IT BE—**

 _ **N**_ ext, Artha climbed up towards one of the larger ruined structures which was probably the Main Hall; with towering columns and statues. He imagined a grand roof of emerald, must have been nothing short of breathtaking. He imagined windows of exquisite colours, shimmering as the sun passed through. He could look down the hall and marvelled at the scale of it, almost as big as a castle in its entirety.

He walked up to the head of the hall, elevated above a platform where two giant stone magisters silently guarded an archway. As he approached he saw two men on the platform, a robed mage and a man in Warden armour and it appeared he'd stumbled in the middle of some tension.

"…tell the revered mother that I will not be harassed in this manner!" the mage bellowed, his index finger poised accusingly at the armoured man. "What her Reverence 'desires' is of no concern to me. I am busy helping you Grey Wardens, by the king's orders, I might add."

The warden simply chuckled, coyly grinning with amusement. "Yes, I was harassing you by delivering a message."

The mage was further aggrieved, looked like he was going to explode in a rage. "Your glibness does you no credit, Alistair," he shot back and began to stomp away.

"Here I thought we were getting along so well," Alistair chuckled after him. "I was even going to name one of my children after you…you know, the grumpy one." His gaze followed the mage as he over-dignifiedly marched away, his staff banging along the stone as he did so.

Artha stood next to him as he watched the mage vanish into the camp and suddenly the man's face fell into sombre contemplation.

"You know, one good thing about the Blight is how it brings people together."

"Sorry, what?"

"Oh, nothing," Alistair sighed. "Just trying to find a bright side to all this." He then began to walk away as well, Artha followed behind him. "Wait, we haven't met, have we?" Artha thought for a moment but decided they hadn't. "I don't suppose you happen to be another mage?"

"You must be Alistair," Artha said bemused.

Alistair then smiled finally remembering, "And that makes you Duncan's new recruit, I suppose?" He stuck out his hand to him and as usual, Artha grabbed his forearm. "Glad to meet you…"

"I'm Artha, Artha Cousland."

The man smiled and nodded. For some reason, the young Warden looked rather familiar though he could not pin down just where he'd seen him from. Cropped dirty blond hair, a little spiked at the front and bright, golden eyes that told him in his short life he had seen just as much as he. "You can call me Alistair…just Alistair is fine. As the junior member of the order I'll be accompanying you in preparation for the joining."

Back into the encampment, its bustling atmosphere hit him once again. The loud banging of the smithy hammering away at a fresh hot piece of steel, or the screeching of a blade being sharpened. Fereldan was a home of warriors, fierce and strong for often times in their opinion, battle solves everything, every problem. Now it seemed the only step to take against this enemy.

Alistair inquired on whether the young northerner had ever encountered a darkspawn before, to which he just shrugged. "I've heard the stories," he said. "Beyond that, no."

Artha followed the young Warden up toward the Warden's division where a large crowd of soldiers stood around a Grey Warden soldier, an undiscernible mass lay on the ground covered in an old and mouldy shroud.

The crowd gave the two way as they approached the front, everyone trying to lean in closer to see what was going on.

"When I fought my first one, I wasn't prepared for how monstrous it was. I can't say I'm looking forward to encountering another." Then when the older Grey Warden in front revealed what was under the shroud, everyone recoiled, taking a few swift steps back. The mass on the ground was nothing other than a darkspawn, a lump of decayed flesh, black and rotted, no more recognisable as anything living.

"There are lots of darkspawn, different kinds," the Warden Archivist began and then stuck a hooked rope into the creature before leveraging it up by a branch overhead. "Our short friend here, for instance, is something called a 'genlock'. They're pretty common in the horde, but we've seen others much larger." Then the experienced Warden produced a sword from his belt and stuck the genlock in the ribs, twisting it before pulling the blade out and showing the black substance left on its shine. "Their blood is black as sin and quite poisonous. I would not recommend even touching it. You get tainted by that blood and you may as well slit your own throat. This, it's a long and painful way to die.

The darkspawn are soulless, they don't need to eat as the taint already sustains them, however it won't stop them from eating for reasons other than dietary. They don't even need to healers because the taint does all that for them, and they heal quickly." He then started pacing around. "There is a reason why we call them darkspawn and that is their enhanced vision in darkness so don't call on the night to shade you. That is, however, impaired in the sunlight, they aren't destroyed by it but they are physically weaker and more timid than they are at night."

Artha was more than intrigued, coming closer to take a better look. He had never seen one in the flesh. They looked almost human. He himself had read some things about them and even that had left him with nightmares. Darkspawn were supposedly asexual and to reproduce they forced captured female prisoners to consume their fellows and become broodmothers."

"…A single broodmother is capable of giving birth to thousands of darkspawn during their lives, and each race reproduces the variants; the shrieks I mentioned before are produced from elvish broodmothers while genlocks come from dwarves and so on. Though they can hardly be considered sapient, possessing no intelligence beyond simple animalistic cunning, they should not be underestimated. Darkspawn are more than capable of coordinated attacks; shrieks and these genlocks excel at ambushing the unwary. Employing poisons and genlocks themselves are familiar with siege tactics."

Once they'd learnt what they needed about their foe, Alistair led them to Duncan, waiting beside huge pyre at the centre of a circle of statues and pillars, with Fang on the side chewing a bone. Soon enough though, they were joined by two more, reunited again with that swiftie rogue from earlier, Daveth shouted to him of course, patting him on the back but the other one he did not recognise, an older man in studded armour and a small amount of red hair on his rounded head.

"I'll assume you are all ready to begin the preparations," he then turned to Alistair and sighed. "Assuming of course, that you're quite finished riling up mages, Alistair."

The young Warden-Ensign raised his hands in defence stating that the Revered Mother ambushed him. "The way she wields guilt…they should stick her in the army." Clearly she forced him to sass the mages.

"We cannot afford to antagonise anyone, Alistair," Duncan looked far beyond annoyed at the whole situation which Artha was only guessing he did not know the full gist of its gravity. "We don't need to give anyone more ammunition against us."

"You're right, Duncan," the young man surrendered. "I apologise."

"Now then, since you are all here, we can begin." Duncan began to pace about them, his hands behind his back. "You four will be heading into the Korcari Wilds to perform two tasks." He handed each of them a small glass vial with a cork on the top. "The First is to obtain three vials of darkspawn blood. There was once a Grey Warden archive in the Wilds, abandoned long ago when we could no longer maintain such a remote outpost. It has recently come to our attention that some scrolls have been left behind, magically sealed to protect them. Your second task is to retrieve these scrolls if you can. They are old treaties, promises of support to the Grey Wardens long ago. So many have forgotten their commitments to us. Perhaps it would be a good idea to have something to remind them with."

"I take it that we had assumed we would return for them?" Alistair guessed.

"A great many things were assumed that have not held true," Duncan responded, glumly. "The archives are an overgrown ruin by now, but the sealed chest should be intact. Alistair will guide you to the area." He looked to the recruits and a shadow of doubt lingered in his eyes yet he held his chin up and said, "I have every confidence you are up to the task. Return quickly and safely."

The three bobbed their heads in compliance and dispersed into the camp to gather supplies. Before he left though, Artha asked the Warden-Commander if he wouldn't mind holding onto his family sword until he got back. Duncan smiled and bowed his head.

Artha was in need of some armour. He was supplied with some metal greaves and braces as well as a light chest plate over his pecks. Daveth and the other man who introduced himself as Jory followed in his suite, their armour bore no sigils like the other Wardens but Alistair then handed each a band with the Grey Warden Griffon on it, to wear on their left arms, show their ranks as Warden Recruits.

Amidst the buzzing of busy soldiers and their squires, he heard the rambling of the sick and the wounded from the last darkspawn assault, bed ridden in the infirmary, tended to by healing mages and surgeons. What that Warden Archivist said about tainted blood really hit him, if he knew anything about war is that it was messy, and bloody. The injured man was still covered in places with the tainted blood, he didn't want to be like that.

Daveth soon came and joined Alistair and he around a warm camp fire close to the infirmary. The rogue had picked out some daggers and a nice bow of Burch wood as well as a quiver full of metal tipped arrows. Jory however was of a bigger build and came with a large greatsword and he wouldn't stop sharpening it as he sat with them.

"That argument I saw…what was that about?" Artha asked the bored Alistair.

"With the mage?" the young Warden clarified. "The Circle is here at the king's request and the Chantry doesn't like that one bit." He then paused and a slight chuckle escaped his lips at a thought. "They just love letting mages know how unwelcome they are. I won't be surprised if it bite them in the arse. That puts me in a bit of an awkward position. You see, I was once a Templar, I was only recruited into the Wardens about six or seven months ago."

"Wow that _would_ be awkward."

Again, the young Warden laughed. "I'm sure the Revered Mother meant it as an insult—sending me as her messenger, and the mage picked right up on that. I never would have agreed to deliver it but Duncan says we're all to cooperate, get along." Alistair then huffed, a little vexed. "Apparently they didn't get the same speech."

Vexed sure, but surprised, Alistair released a long breath and got up from his seat. He had just submitted his sword in to be sharpened. A travelling merchant had also just arrived and he could have sworn he'd seen a nifty looking shield.

Artha however, was drawn to the infirmary, one of the patients was moaning in pain yet propped to his side he kept staring at the young lad. Like the others, he kept on mouthing the words ' _He calls…_ ' over and over again. Soon a healer came to his side, probably to examine his condition. He could tell that hope was slowly vanishing from her eyes as she inspected. The young Cousland walked over to them to conduct his own inspection out of curiosity.

"You may not want to remain here long, Warden," the healer warned, wiping her hands on her blood stricken robes. "Most of these men have been tainted by the darkspawn blood."

"It's okay, ma'am, just curious."

The wounded man then looked up at him, his eyes were puffy, swollen red that he could scarcely see them. His lips were cracked and bloody, all contorted into a fearful expression. "You…you need to convince them!" he croaked. "We…we've got to run! They're coming!" Artha came closer and asked him what he meant by that, though he was not really expecting an answer in the conventional sense, the man looked like he had already taken to insanity. "I saw them…we're all gonna die!"

The healer sighed and tried to place his head back onto the pillow while simultaneously applying a soothing leaf upon his forehead. "I apologise, Warden. He's been like this ever since they found him in the Wilds."

"Is it possible that he has important information?"

She merely shrugged her shoulders and informed him that the commander that brought him in didn't seem to think so. But that was when the man started to speak again, his red had seemingly begun to turn grey before his eyes. "You…you can feel it, can't you? They taint the land, turn it black and sick. You can feel it inside!" And then his voice started to trail off but Artha could clearly make him out. "They'll come out of that forest…they'll come out and spread! Like caterpillars covering a tree, they'll swallow us whole!"

"Please, Hagath, you need to calm yourself," the healer urged.

"I…I don't want to see any more!" he screamed out against the healer's brace. "I close my eyes and…please leave me be…"

The healer glanced back at Artha asking him to respect the man's wishes and just walk away. She looked like she understood his own plight, the anxious look Artha had not noticed was leaking out of him, his tell. He would soon have to venture out into that very forest. He stole a glance behind him, it was like receiving a prophecy, a glimpse into a future so plausible, so close that it shook him to the core. He looked around him, the other beds, all occupied by similar scenarios, murmuring incoherent words of divine providence.

Beside the infirmary was a group of the faithful, kneeling I prayer before a revered mother, dressed similarly to the way that Mother Mallol dressed though this one was dressed in finer robes with golden sun motif embroidery. Mallol, Artha guessed, sought more to humble herself, everything she wore she made herself. "In the name of Andraste, I bless you today. May you find favour in the Maker's eyes," he heard her chant. _So let it be._

The priestess spotted him and bobbed her head. She raised her hand to him and with her eyes closed, her head lowered she began to bless him. "I bless you, Grey Warden, in the name of Andraste and the Maker above. May the Chant of Light carry your name to the ears of our Lord."

Artha accepted her prayer and lowered his own head while crossing his arms over his chest. "So let it be." It was strange though, that everyone had already started calling them; Jory, Daveth and he Grey Wardens, something told him that it would not be that easy.

Sooner than they realised, the time had come and Alistair gathered them up by the western gate, a light yet quite tough looking assembly of strung up wood barricading a stone archway. Quaint but if the impaled darkspawn corpses were any indication, it was formidable enough. The sun was starting to set now, Artha dreaded the prospect of traversing the Wilds in the dark of night.

He was allowed to see Fang a final time before heading off. He was whining and pouting, trying to follow them around as though fearful himself, that it would be the last he's see his master. The mabari soon found himself at Duncan's side before long as the four of them stood by as the gates began to part and only three of them were shivering with anxiety and fear.

Alistair hailed the guardsman who proceeded to open the barricades and let them through. Daveth took a deep breath in and Jory cracked his joints, neither of them held themselves up as more than what they were and they were terrified. As for Artha, his fingers played with the hilt of his sword, one that the Quartermaster had given him, a simple blade and transitioned into a wound rope as a hilt, so no cross-guard. He looked back behind him, at the wizened old Duncan, his stern, unmoving non-smiling stare lingered on him as the gates were drawn closed.

He made a silent prayer to the Maker to protect him and his company. _For the righteous stands before the darkness… so let it be._

…


	12. Into the Wilds

**Chapter Ten**

— **INTO THE WILDS—**

Far in the southern reaches of Thedas—a cold and dark expanse of forest and swamp lands that stretched for miles and miles the extent of which was not truly known, the Korcari Wilds were shrouded in a thick and unnatural mist and guarded by all manner of creatures

Deep within, following a faded track of treaded ground that passed some old ruins, a man swimming in his blood crawled away from a site of horrors and devastation. Breath was escaping him, threatening to leave him to the darkness. He tried to relieve himself of his armour for he would have little use of it.

He scraped and climbed over the bodies of his comrades, piles of lifeless figures on the ground. He had no doubt he'd soon join them. He could hear their voices now, but they sounded quite different.

"Well, he's not half as dead as he looks, is he?" Alistair quipped and soon the others followed behind him.

The man groggily looked up at his new audience and found he did not know them but he did recognise the sigils they wore. "Grey…Wardens…?" _Maker be praised_ , he smiled through his bloodied lips. "My scouting band was attacked by darkspawn. Came out from the ground and took us by surprise. I've seen my fair share of battles but this?!"

They knelt down to meet the soldier and Alistair took closer examination of him. His wounds seemed deep, the damage extensive yet there was nothing too fatal with the proper aide. The scout pleaded with them to help him back to camp. Artha nodded but Alistair, who tightened the kite shield strapped to his back as though getting ready to leave shook his head, they had a job to do and as part of their lesson, they needed to know how Grey Wardens operated, duty above all had to be fulfilled. "Let's try to bandage him up at least."

The older Grey Warden seemed to approve this and rummaged through his rucksack for some medical supplies. In no time they had patched the scout up again and with some healing potions had him up on his feet again. It wasn't a permanent fix but it would have to do and could get him back to the encampment for real treatment.

Before they let him go however, Artha felt the need to inquire about his brother but the man merely shook his head, saying that no Highever soldiers came their way. Dejected, the young lord bowed his head in thanks with the scout thanking his saviours in kind and sprinted up the road.

This left the company of Warden Recruits in an open field, empties save for the litter of corpses the darkspawn left behind. Among the dead, a small team of perhaps seven men or possibly as much as thirteen, an empty cart which was turned to its side, some druffalos with their stomachs ripped open, their innards spilling out. Some of the corpses even looked like they were trampled upon. The group spread out to investigate some more, Alistair explains that any indication of what they are up against would be helpful once they actually do come upon darkspawn.

"Did you hear?" Jory asked in a whisper. "An entire patrol of seasoned men killed…slaughtered."

"Calm down, Ser Jory. We'll be fine if we're careful," Alistair, who was a few feet away and should not have been able to hear him answered.

"Those soldiers were careful, and they were still overwhelmed," Ser Jory pointed out, dropping whatever he had been holding to stand the certified Warden down. "How many darkspawn can the four of us slay? A dozen? There's an entire army in these forests!"

Although Ser Jory meant for a more imposing stance, Alistair didn't seem so intimidated, wearing a coy grin. "There are darkspawn about, but we're in no danger of walking into the bulk of the horde."

The agitated knight growled which then turned to an anxious chuckle, "How do you know? I'm not a coward, but this is both foolish and reckless. We should go back."

Well Artha thought that he definitely sounded like a coward. He for one was actually rather intrigued by the whole notion and his childhood fantasies took the fore. He was currently training to be a Grey Warden. "Overcoming these dangers is part of the test, right?"

They all agreed and Alistair even told them that all Grey Wardens can sense darkspawn so whatever their cunning of their ancient foe he guaranteed that they would not take them by surprise and that was why he was here with them. Daveth didn't miss a quip however, clapping his bulkier friend on the back. "You see, Jory? We _might_ die, but at least we'll be warned about it first."

"That doesn't mean I'm here to make this easy, however," warned Alistair laying his hand ahead to invite them onwards.

They continued to search through the wreck and they noticed a foul stench wash over them. Artha spotted something against one of the fallen pillars and upon further examination found next to white flower with a red centre, what looked like blood, only it was black, and hot. He took the flower and told Alistair of the blood who told them to draw out their weapons. But there was nothing, no sound but faint chirps of small birds in the distance, squirrels scuttling away and a mighty breeze whispering through the trees.

It felt like a pause, unstable and wild. They managed to go a few more kilometres deeper into the forests getting to more ruins and Tevinter pillared structures standing by a large body of water when two monstrous figures swooped down upon them. The recruits were taken off guard, falling to the muddy ground. Only Alistair was standing, whacking his blade with such skill it was mesmerising, but not enough.

The darkspawn were far different to what Artha had expected. Yes they possessed many traits owed to their corruption; monstrous, bestial, and terrifying. Though they growled and barked and screeched like any wild animal, Artha saw an intensity in their eyes, a focus, like they were thinking. He could not explain it.

"Quit daydreaming, kid!" Jory yelled, pulled him from the line of fire of an archer.

He was right of course and it didn't take Artha long to remember his training. There were another two archers standing on top of the pillars where they had a rather good vantage point to shoot at them, alas it also meant that there was nowhere to run to. Daveth fired an arrow right into one of the monsters which sent it tumbling down with a thud and a crack. The other one was a bit more tricky, it kept on spinning and dodging the arrows fired at it as though it had studied them enough to know how to avoid getting hit.

While Daveth worked on that Artha worked on shielding the rogue from incoming fire by slashing at them as they came, and Alistair and Jory were fighting off the others. It took some time but Daveth had let loose an arrow that found its way into the corrupted's eye socket.

Next they continued forward, probably due-north, there they came by more old ruins, this time they also housed a makeshift darkspawn campsite. They were not vacant and the band suddenly entered another battle with them.

Maker! There were at least seven of them, all huge and savage, like a rabid animal, drool, dripping from their fang filled mouths. Alistair let Jory take the lead for a while, being a seasoned warrior it was fitting, Alistair and Artha had their left and right flanks while Daveth shot everywhere else. When they got close enough they broke.

It would also appear that the darkspawn had advanced themselves—shooting arrows set ablaze through the air. Soon enough he was becoming overwhelmed with two darkspawn against him. One of the genlock archers had taken to duel wielding two curved bone hilted daggers, slashing at him like drake claws all the while trying to keep a larger armoured Hurlock with a large sickle sword from splitting him into two. It was a timely shot from Daveth that bought Artha a window, he kicked the gunlock in the stomach and then swiftly spun around and finishing off the larger brute.

When all was done once more they met up in the middle of the site, each with their empty vials and filled them with the black and corrupted blood of those creatures.

They were allowed some time to rest now, looking around the camp, or at least for a while. Their respite was short lived as more darkspawn arrows fired from over a hill and barely missing them by a hair strand. "Oh, can't we get a fucking brake!" Jory bellowed and followed Alistair who already had his blade drawn and had run off to meet them.

While they left, Artha stayed back with Daveth. "Reckon you could take them down before they get there?"

The rogue grinned at the challenge and took aim. Four archers as his target and with less than a second between the shots, Daveth killed them all which earned a pat on the back from Artha and Daveth kept that self-proud smile all the way to the others. Alistair chuckled himself commending him on his accuracy while Jory simply scowled. "I had that," he said.

The group continued on deeper and the land began to morph into more swampland. There were some arches and pillars running through the water along some patch of debris that formed into a bridge. Alistair stopped them when he saw them—not darkspawn but big grey wolves. He made his way to gesture them back but they had spotted the intruders and attacked accordingly. Again their weapons were drawn but then out of nowhere, another animal came charging past them and toward the wolves, barking furiously at them. It was Fang, come in to aid his master. They were gobsmacked for sure but truthfully grateful for their fortune. The wolves retreated away from the ruins and into the dark pillars of trees.

Artha did not know how Fang was able to enter into the Wilds or even how he found them but he was indeed glad to see his old friend. The mutt panted, wagging his tail fondly and staring wide-eyed at his master.

The piece of land the wolves were guarding were also home to two statues in the Tevinter style, armoured, faceless and baring spears. They themselves protecting a small chest between them. Again, the men surveyed their surroundings and with the sun slowly setting, Alistair decided that it would be best to camp there for the night, a notion seconded by most, even Fang liked the idea. Artha on the other hand was antsy, his hands were shaking and he realised it he could not tell if it was anticipation for battle or aware that he was in way over his head.

Artha sat close to the small campfire they set up, small enough not to grab any unwanted attention, luckily for them the hills and ruins protected them well enough. He just stared into the dancing flames, lost in his own thoughts as usual.

"So how do you find your first encounter with a darkspawn?" Alistair addressed the circle but they remained silent, reluctant to share, but it didn't take long for them to loosen up a bit.

In truth, Artha was fairly shaken. These darkspawn were a far cry from the savage creatures he'd read about, they were not what one would consider civilised, but since when could mindless monsters coordinate attacks or sharpshoot?

They then began to look for any topic for conversation. It finally landed on their recruitment stories.

"I grew up in a village 'bout a day's ride to the east. Little blot you wouldn't find on a map," he explained. "Haven't been back in years. I struck out for the city as soon as I could outrun my pa. I've been in Denerim for, what…six years now?" Daveth's eyes then began to glaze, like this was the first time exploring this side of his life. "Never liked it much, but there's more purses there than anywhere else."

"So you were a cutpurse?" accused Jory but Daveth didn't seem all too insulted.

"…and a pickpocket, thank you very much," the thief shot back as though the offense was that Jory underestimated his infamy. "Or was anyhow. Who'd ever guess I'd end up a Grey Warden."

"Wait, so how did the Grey Wardens find you?" Artha inquired.

"I found them. I cut Duncan's purse while he was standing in a crowd," he said. "He grabbed my wrist, but I squirmed out and bolted. The old bugger can run, but the garrison caught me first," Daveth chortled. He explained that he was a wanted man in Denerim and he was likely to have gotten the death sentence. Then Duncan stopped them and invoked the Right of Conscription. "Gave the garrison the finger while I was walking away. Don't know why Duncan wants someone like me. But he says finesse is important and that I'm fast with a blade, so maybe it's that. A happy accident."

"Well as for me, I fought hard to get here," said Jory. "Impressing Duncan was not easy. Is it not thrilling to be given the chance?" It was true, Duncan seemed to have an impossible task with a scarce handful of Grey Wardens, yet the senior Warden did not complain or flinch from his duty.

"Yes, I am definitely looking forward to it," answered the young lord and Daveth just bobbed his head in agreement.

"I hail from Redcliffe where I served as a knight under the command of Arl Eamon," said Jory, proudly, even straightening his back as though he were taking ranks. He then regarded the young man for a second, quite possibly the youngest member of their company. "What about you, Artha? You have the bearing of a man who knows how to fight. If I may ask, were you a soldier before you came here?"

He chuckled softly and shook his head. "I wasn't a soldier, but my father did train me to fight," he replied simply.

"Are you a nobleman?"

Daveth gasped then bowed his head. "I am honoured to be in your company, my lord."

Artha wordlessly returned the courtesy. Awkwardly he poked about the small fire, its embers rising into the night like the spark of magic.

The conversation continued on, Daveth asked how they were recruited. "Well though I come from Redcliffe, Duncan recruited me in Highever, a city off the northern coast, it was in Highever that I met my Helena. I was smitten. She has the most beautiful eyes." He was grinning widely, a sort of lopsided one as he reminisced. "Now for years I found any excuse to return there and we married a year ago. Have you travelled there?"

Again Artha chuckled but it soon faded into melancholy. "Actually my father was lord of Highever…before he…"

Now they all froze. Even Alistair seamed dumbstruck for a moment. Jory cleared his throat in preparation to address the young lord, "My lord Cousland. I'm honoured. Arl Eamon gave me leave to serve in Highever, but I was attempting to persuade Helena to come to Redcliffe with me. At least until I was recruited."

"Yeah what's up with that, how did the Grey Wardens find you?" asked Daveth who devoured his strip of beef jerky like a ravenous hound.

"Last month I believe it was, I had won a tournament in Highever."

"Aye, I remember that day," said Artha, a smile crossing his face. "You were actually quite awe-inspiring. It was a shame that I did not get a chance to face you myself, Ser Jory."

Jory smiled at him, feeling some pride well up. "Aye that would have been something. I hear you're quite skilled in combat and I guess today was proven to me. I doubt the match would be long and I don't quite fancy being a loser and risk losing Helena to you, my lord."

A loud howling tore through the silence of that cold night which made Artha jump slightly in his seat. As a child he would always go outside, run in the forest with Fergus, go camping on the way to West Hill or hunting with his father, but here, in these woods, he felt invisible eyes on him, like the woods were alive. "Does anyone get a very dower, deathly vibe about this place?"

"A lot of bad stories about these wilds," their rogue tuckered himself in, enveloping his bow closer.

"It's not just animals and darkspawn that dwell in these forests," Alistair murmured and leaned in, his face looking grim. "In the Black Age an Almarri arl slaughtered the werewolves that inhabited these wilds. He and his army of men and hounds killed every wolf and every member of the Chasind folk too. One day an old Chasind woman found her sons all dead. She pulled a blade from one of their hearts and plunged it into her own chest and cursed the arl's name. Some say that when her blood touched the ground, a mist began to rise and spread across the whole forest—"

"…And killed the arl's army, killed right then and there," Artha interjected.

"Others say that the soldiers wander still," Jory then finished, also leaning in closer, his gaze had grown intense…until the tension broke with their laughter. They stayed up into the night but one by one sleep overtook them, all except Alistair who kept watch on the camp.

 **. . .**

They woke up bright and early though the silence would not tell them how early. The sun was rising but its warmth had yet to reach them, only the cold. Dew still hung on the edge of leaves, droplets woke him gently, Andraste's kiss and he woke untroubled by nightmares. Not even the terrors of the darkspawn could corrupt his night.

They raided the chest where they found an old cache of healing supplies. It would be a balm for their efforts. Fang hunted for his own food, returning to the wolves he'd killed for sustenance. Soon they were ready. The infamous mist had set itself around them and the atmosphere, so intent on hindering them with fears

Alistair led his charges down from their respite and further south, they were getting close to the heart of the old outpost where the charters should be waiting. Beyond the reeds where the top of the outpost had fallen, sunken into the bog they were to slew more darkspawn. They came in droves, marching as though like any other army and it was not long 'till the company became somewhat accustomed.

They came to a narrow pass where soldiers captured had been strung up by the neck, spoiled by a bloody ordeal. "Look there!" Daveth shouted, pointing at the display.

Alistair sighed. "Poor slobs. That just seems excessive."

Their eyes stayed on the bodies so still, as they passed below. They would be a continuing motif as they journeyed, utilised by the darkspawn possibly as an intimidation tactic. Never thought he'd be saying that.

"Shit, an emissary!"

All of a sudden a huge ball of fire came down on them hitting the ground with a small explosion that knocked them to the men to the ground. It was a darkspawn emissary, a spellcaster hurling out strange and dark magic.

 _This was just overkill_ , Artha thought as the others ran for towards the monster, standing atop a wide, rundown old bridge raised only slightly over the water, in its hand grasped a burning ball of flames which he continuously began to chuck at the Warden recruits. Artha managed to dodge one and ran after them as the spellcaster retreated to the other side of the lake. Something seemed odd, even Alistair halted, they each shared a look of concern and to their suspicions proven true— the recruits followed the darkspawn into a clearing beside another part of the outpost sinking in the bog. Two more darkspawn appeared, archers already unleashing a flurry arrows at them.

In an act of quick thinking, Alistair threw his shield to Jory who raised it to block off the arrows from both he and Daveth. Fang raced into the battlefield and knocked one darkspawn to the ground. Artha and Alistair were left to the rear as more hurlocks warriors came tried to box them in. They were vicious, going berserk, growling, roaring, spitting, gnawing. It was still hard to think these creatures possessed tact but this ambush proved they had and more—looking around them he noticed that thick wooden pikes were driven to the ground and turned into barricades, strategically placed to hide archers, they were young trees so they could not have been made by one of theirs. It scared the young lord. Still at the end they ended the raid; Jory had ended up fending off a brutish genlock on his own but when Artha made it to him the two dispatched the beast with ease.

Around the lake they could see more ruins, a giant dome structure in the water, a dour reminded of civilisation. Alistair told them that the outpost was just of the hill though it was hard to make out in the mist.

As they go up the slopes Artha sees a small pile of white rocks with ash over it. For some reason the name Gazarath enters his head but dismisses it just as quickly.

Finally they could see the ruins more clearly, or where the base of the tower ought to have stood. A small cemetery of moss-covered pillars lay around its circular base, but as they got closer, they saw too a small group of darkspawn at the mouth. They counted four darkspawn Hurlocks with an alpha at the back.

At first Artha was hoping on the fact they had yet to be seen but was dashed when they began their approach, one of them even started firing arrows at them. Everyone was dashing around to avoid getting hit but as Artha lay at its line of sight, his movements were limited especially with the monsters descending down the hill with great speed. Luckily Artha saw only a few feet away from him a large round metal shield facing down. He looked up in time to see more arrows coming and quickly dove forward, rolling toward the shield where his arm perfectly slipped into the straps. He raised the shield and the arrows bounced off the shield like stones.

Now equipped with a little more protection, Artha started to sprint up, now ahead of his company. He bashed every darkspawn in his path, enough to rob them of footing but not fatal. That was where the others came in; Alistair slashing his blade across to decapitate one with Jory's greatsword plunged into another's gut. Daveth with his bow had started shooting down arrows from the air and Fang did what Fang did best…he pounced onto them, bearing his teeth before ripping their heads off.

A larger Hurlock had attached itself to his shield, trying to wrench it from his arm. "Daveth!"

The rogue swiftly shot an arrow at the monster, when the creature did not die, Jory came to his side and sliced through the darkspawn like a filleted fish. They all then ganged up on the alpha who was more larger than the others with bulking armour and a menacing horned helmet that covered the entirety of its monstrous face. Alistair then used a powerful shield bash to take away its footing, Daveth shot at its hand bound to strike at Jory while Artha swung from the side, a mighty strike that sliced into the monster's neck, cutting his head clean off.

Then that was the end of that, the battle seemingly won the five warriors—Fang included, made their way into the structure though clearly old and covered in fungus and vines, the moss could not completely hide away the white sheen of the stones.

Artha sees the box at the end of the ruins opposite the main entrance, surrounded by rubble but as they got close they found the box was no more, smashed in it was nothing more than a collection of perfectly carved stone, and iron hinges and fittings. They ran to it, kneeling around the box in search of the pieces of paper they had risked life and limb to retrieve, hoping to the Maker they were still there. But it was empty. They all cursed at their fortune while Alistair stood up and began to ponder on the missing content.

Jory asked what they had to do now but their leader remained in thought.

"Well, well," came a stranger's voice, echoing amongst the ruined stone. "What have we here?" The men were startled, looking about them for the source of the voice.

At last, a figure appeared from atop a stone rampart, a woman dressed in an assortment of clothing of indiscernible style, more like it was made of random fabrics and cloth gathered over time that barely covered her body. Even the jewellery she wore around her slender neck seemed mismatched. As to who she actually was, Artha could not tell for she kept a hood up but he swore a glimpse of her eyes, glowing in the shadow of her cowl.

Something was clear however—a long black wood branch in her grasps with strange symbols etched upon the tip, she was a mage. Instantly, Artha's hands came to his sword and lifted it but an inch from its scabbard.

"Are they vultures, I wonder?" she began to speculate, with only a hint of playful sarcasm. "Scavengers, poking amidst the corpse whose bones were long since cleaned." The woman then started to descend and once she stood before them on equal footing took down her cowl, revealing the face of a beautiful young woman. She was probably only a few years older than himself or else that her time in the Wilds had an effect on her.

"Or merely intruders, come into these darkspawn-filled Wilds of mine in search of easy prey?" She now stood before him, an inch or two shorter than he. She looked up into his eyes and he to hers, transfixed by their unusual hue, not golden like the king's but yellow, glowing. "So what say you, hmm? Scavenger or intruder?"

Artha's heart was racing but he quickly found his voice again. "I am neither," he answered with conviction. "The Grey Wardens once owned this tower."

She chuckled bemused and crossed her arms. "'tis a tower no longer," she quipped. "The Wilds have obviously claimed this desiccated corpse." She then began to walk around them, her eyes still studying the recruits with caution and interest. "I have watched your progress for some time. ' _Where do they go,_ ' I wonder, ' _why are they here?_ " She passes through an archway onto the edge of a cliff above the lake. Her back to them as she muses. "And now you disturb ashes none have touched for so long. Why is that?" the woman turns around again, an eyebrow cocked.

Artha heard Alistair beside him whispering, "Don't answer her. She looks Chasind, and that means others may be nearby."

He was sure that the more experienced Warden whispered softly enough so that only he could hear it but perhaps not nearly quiet enough for a mischievous smirk played upon the wild woman's pale face as though unhurt by his silent insinuation. "Ooh, you fear barbarians will swoop down upon you?"

"Yes, swooping is bad," Alistair retorted, eyes still suspicious.

"She's a Witch of the Wilds, she is!" hushed Daveth, "She'll turn us into toads!"

Again the woman chuckled and she did look close to just bellowing in laughter like she was having the time of her life. "Witch of the Wilds?" she snickered. "Such idle fancies, those legends. Have you no mind of your own?"

She then rounded on Artha whose hand was still cluching at the hilt of his sword but in rest and not to assume aggression. She came forth to him with a confidently seductive stride, slow yet sure.

"You there, handsome lad. Tell me your name and I shall tell you mine," she demanded. "Let us be civilised."

"Oh, I am Artha Cousland. A pleasure to meet you," greeted the youngest of them before he could even stop himself.

"Now that is a proper, civil greeting, even here in the Wilds," said the wild woman with a smile which lost its poison. "You may call me Morrigan.

"Shall I guess your purpose? You sought something in that chest, something that is here no longer?" If she came into this conversation with subtly she had all but forgotten it and her duplicity may have exposed itself.

Alistair was hot on her deception, pointing a finger on her. " _Here no longer?_ ' You stole them, didn't you!" he exclaimed. "You're some kind of… sneaky… witch-thief!"

"How very eloquent." She teased and then pointed out, "How does one steal from dead men?"

"Quite easily, it seems," the senior Warden shot back, unamused by the woman's games. "Those documents are Grey Warden property and I suggest you return them." His tone was firm, strong, and almost regal even. He moved to the front of the group but was lightly stopped by Artha, reminding their leader of some tact himself.

"I will not for it was not I who removed them." Her smile was gone now, and a scowl came to take its place. "Invoke a name that means nothing her any longer if you wish, I am not threatened."

"Then who removed them?" Artha took charge to cut the growing tension.

Morrigan seemed more receptive of him now, and her smile returned. "t'was my mother, in fact." The young man returned her warmth but a small part of his mind was suggesting caution. He asked if she could indeed take them to her and the Grey Warden documents. "Now there is a sensible request. I like you," she said, a slight giggle in her own tone. Morrigan then began walking past the group of Wardens, they guessed she wanted them to follow so they did, closely but not too close that, naturally, especially as she produced a crude wooden staff standing against a nearby wall.

"I'd be careful," Alistair whispered again, moving close to the young Cousland. "First it's ' _I like you…_ ' but then ' _Zap!_ ' frog time," he said, reminding him that the woman leading them was indeed a mage.

Daveth looked on ahead, concerned. "She'll put us all in the pot, she will. Just you watch," he warned, fidgeting with his blades.

Jory was also worried but it looked as though his agitation was making up for it. "If the pot's warmer than this forest, it'd be a nicer change."

On that, Artha could not agree with more, perhaps he was not used to such a testing environment. One bit of privileged stereotype he could not pretend was not true. So they continued on—three Warden Recruits and their supervisor allowing a strange wilderness mage lead them deeper into the Maker forsaken forest.

…

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **I am sorry it's taking so long if there are any readers. My computers doing this thing where it won't let me save any of my documents or that they don't save properly. Either way I would sometimes spend an hour writing, maybe more only to have it all erased again. It's really starting to piss me off.**

 **I really do want to keep writing this regardless if people actually read it but finding time is not as easy as when I started this. Still, until BioWare comes out with a fourth Dragon Age game that would inevitably consume my time, I would like to continue to write and finish documenting my character's playthrough.**


	13. Concludes His First Quest

**Chapter Eleven**

— **CONCLUDES HIS** **FIRST QUEST** **—**

 _ **T**_ he fog seemed to thicken the deeper the four men and a hound travelled. Despite the open wilderness Artha was starting to feel claustrophobic and with Alistair breathing down his neck with constant warnings, the cold was beginning to set. They trekked through the thickets where it was difficult to determine where the ground merged with the wet swamps; Artha had to fish Daveth a couple of times when he took a sure step on what was supposed to be a patch of grass was actually thick moss covered static water.

He wondered if it were even possible for anyone to actually get this deep into the Wilds unscathed. Looking behind him he could faintly see the very top of the Tower of Ishal looming over the trees, at least they knew which way to turn back. But even that would soon be taken from them and the lofty tower vanished behind the veil of murky green.

Their feet began to crunch then crackle as the road morphed into that of old cobblestone bearing signs of wear, clearly most travelled—so Artha was fairly confident their guide was an honest one. Morrigan was mostly quiet throughout the whole journey, she was stoic and held herself with her head raised high. He couldn't however bring himself to engage in conversation with her because Ser Jory would jump at every sound of rustling around them and had them all fearing darkspawn.

It was probably by the eighth scare that really got everyone a little paranoid, and though she remained silent, Artha could see her smiling amusingly. But her pace began to slow, her steps, shortened with comfort.

In the distance beyond the mangroves was a shabby, humble looking cabin made of earth and wood. The house that stood on an island amidst the swamp seemed to lean against a tall remnant of wall by more pieces of timber, possibly to reinforce support. In front, just coming out of the house was an old woman, way older than his mother with white hair that still held some sheen and strangely looked more kempt than he was expecting from wildlings.

"Greetings, mother," she announced, her hands waved in an exaggerated flourish, and much to their surprise. "I bring before you four Grey Wardens who—"

"I see them, girl," the old woman shot quickly, and then to her new guests smirked. She studied the strangers intensely. "Mmn, much as I expected," she concluded.

Artha looked in surprise but Alistair merely looked sceptical, unamused by the riddles they were sure to receive. "Are we supposed to believe you were expecting us?" He sniggered. Artha was half a mind to pull the man back a bit, for as uncomfortable as they all were, they were technically guests by the elderly woman's leave.

Said woman simply chuckled back. "You are required to do nothing, least of all believe. Shut one's eyes tight or open one's arms wide…either way, one's a fool!"

Daveth was whispering something to Jory who then attempted to shush him. "Quiet, Daveth. If she really is a witch, do you want to make her mad?"

"There's a smart lad," she replied as though Jory had spoken aloud, which he hadn't. "Sadly irrelevant to the larger scheme of things, but it is not I who decides. Believe what you will."

He had heard of that before, _Witch of the Wilds_ but only in passing. What they it actually was remained a mystery to him, but what was clear was that they were not of the Chantry's Circle. Artha, who up 'till now had remained in the background to silently assess their situation had garnered the witch's attention. Suddenly all eyes were on him and he could not help but feel a tad bit self-conscious.

"And what of you?" Morrigan's mother inquired. Her eyes, which glowed yellow like her daughter', landed upon the youngest member. "Do you possess a different viewpoint or do you believe as others do?"

Artha was left motionless, a little disconcerted at her line of questioning. If the young lad was honest he was no longer sure what to believe and he had answered as such. He looked into her amber orbs as they studied him carefully or regarding some off distant thought. The woman simply smiled at this and patted him on the shoulder, her hand lingering only a tiny bit longer.

"A statement that possesses more wisdom than it implies," she said to him sagely. "Be always aware…or was it oblivious? I can never remember." The woman took another look at the company before her, then back on him again. "So much about you is uncertain…and yet I believe," she stopped herself mid stride and chuckled lightly to herself. "Do I? Why, it seems I do."

Behind him it seemed that Alistair had been holding his sword just inches out of its scabbard for he then slid it back and laughed himself. Artha understood him though—he was a Templar trained man surrounded by apostate mages. "So this is a dreaded _Witch of the Wilds?_ "

"Witch of the Wilds, eh? Morrigan must have told you that," she scoffed, glancing at her daughter who looked embarrassedly down at her bare feet. "She fancies such tales, though she would never admit it. Oh how she dances under the moon," she begins to laugh again.

Artha's eyes though fixated on Morrigan as she hides her face that he just knew held pink and blushing cheeks beneath her raven hair. He found himself unintentionally slightly lowering his own head to glimpse hers more clearly. As for her mother, she sure did not look like a Witch of the Wilds, nothing too strange as to merit such comparisons to one so terrifying. The old crone certainly looked like most others her age that he'd seen around Highever. Her face was wrinkled as any other, eyes looking somewhat tired and though it was almost invisible, she stood with a slight hunch, just slightly, she sure was a tired woman, one who had seen many winters, marooned in the dark woods.

"They did not come to listen to your wild tales, Mother."

Sobering up the old woman straightened herself and walked inside her little house, when she emerged again she carried with her a small wooden box which was probably of her own making. "Before you begin barking, your precious seal wore off long ago. I have protected these."

Alistair looked like he was about to do just that and bark but then stopped himself. "You…oh. You protected them?" he responded, taken aback.

"And why not?" was her simple reply. "Take them to your Grey Wardens and tell them this Blight's threat is greater than they realise." Alistair accepted the box and looked inside to confirm they were indeed the Grey Warden treaties. Artha however seemed a little uneasy and inquired what she meant by her words. "Either the threat is more or they realise less!" her laughter boomed about the clearing. "Or perhaps the threat is nothing? Or perhaps they realise nothing! Oh do not mind me. You have what you came for."

Instinctively the dark haired young nobleman bowed his whole upper body slightly in thanks for the documents.

"Time for you to go, then," said Morrigan then and crossed her arms over her breasts.

"Do not be ridiculous, girl. These are your guests."

The younger woman sighed, knowing what her mother wanted of her she offered to show the four men and their dog out of the woods, grabbing Artha by the wrist and forcefully directing them away from her territory with sighs of frustrations.

They soon left the more darker stretches of the Korcari Wilds and into more open spaces. By that point the glorious sun was slipping and in a few more hours it would sleep and the luminous moon would rise to take her place in the sky. They found the road again quite quickly after that, with the great Tower of Ostagar a mere distance away.

The young apostate who escorted them waited at the edge of the clearing to see them off. Artha, the smitten boy he was had looked back seeking to prolong their time together but to their bafflement, the witch was gone. Nothing left but the dark shadowy woods. With Artha at the head and Alistair protecting their rear, the company made their way up the dirt road to the encampment.

"Let's get back to Duncan quickly," said Alistair once they entered through the gates. It was high past evening when they walked through to the old ruined fortress, little seemed to have changed in their absence and they began to wonder just how long they had been out there. No one seemed to pay them much heed, just another group of soldiers coming back from patrol they'd guessed. Or if they saw the bands on their arms they knew better than to ask about Grey Warden business.

It was a queer thing; he did not know why but Artha was under the impression that he'd feel a great weight lifted once he'd gotten back but right now he felt…nothing. There was nothing but a vacuum that robbed him of breath, like he was waiting for something, waiting for a steep plunge.

They saw Duncan by his pyre as though he hadn't left it and Alistair led the company down to him. "If we wait too long, you won't be able to swing a dead cat without hitting a darkspawn," he sombrely joked.

As they walked, or trudged through the camp, the three recruits walked in silence, even Fang who still wagged his tale, did so with less jump in his steps. Yet their spirits were not darkened by the events in the Wilds, not really—but they are changed, dragging behind them an unknown burden. They had seen the face of their enemy and in their hearts, all three of them, it was not fear of them, but anticipation for what was to come.

He could not speak for the others but for the young Cousland scion, he felt like he was thrust into one of Nan's stories which had been darkened black as the tainted Heavens. The last vestige of home had begun to shatter and he allowed one last thought to dwell on his brother in hopes that the Maker was merciful.

Once close to the large pyre Fang raced to the heat and curled himself in by the warmth. Artha laid his shield down by the fire and Duncan regarded it with some amusement. It was an old shield and who it belonged to he could not begin to guess, but it was sturdy. "So you returned from the Wilds. Have you been successful?"

The three of them bobbed their heads in unison and presented to them a vial each of the black blood they had painstakingly laboured to attain.

"Good. I've had the Circle mages preparing," Duncan continued, holding one of the vials to the light. "With this blood we can begin the Joining immediately."

They were all about to disperse again when Artha brought Morrigan and her mother to Duncan attention. Alistair attested to this saying, "There was a woman at the tower and her mother had the scrolls. They were both very…odd."

Duncan looked quizzical, stroking his beard in thought. "Were they wilder folk?"

Alistair drew in closer and told the older Warden that he did not think they were, Chasind. "They might be apostates."

The Warden-Commander looked sullenly at him. He had Alistair hand the treaties to him and attempted in his way to reprimand his weary charge, "I know you were once a Templar, Alistair, but Chantry business are not ours. We have the scrolls so let us focus on the Joining."

Alistair looked ready with a counter argument but he knew Duncan long enough to know he'd regret it later, so he agreed and silently apologised. Artha though was not yet finished, coming in closer to Duncan and requested they tell them what the ritual actually entailed. Both Daveth and Ser Jory also came close, eager to finally get some answers.

"I will not lie; we Grey Wardens pay a heavy price to become what we are," the Warden-Commander confessed, again his expression showed a mixture of both apologetic and an understanding of necessity like he expected them to have already known and accepted whatever the consequences were. "Fate may decree that you pay your price now rather than later."

They all remained quiet, speechless. Was he saying that the ritual could kill them?

The Warden seemed to have caught their uneasy stares because he adjusted his timbre. "As could any darkspawn you might face in battle. You would not have been chosen, however, if I did not think you all had a chance to survive."

There was nothing but cold silence hanging in the air between them, but it was Daveth that broke it. "Let's go then" he said. "I'm anxious to see this Joining now." Ser Jory agreed and Artha was left with naught but to follow in, he suspected that his path now lay out of his hands for some time now.

"Then let us begin," Duncan announced and instructed Alistair to escort them to the old temple.

…


	14. Joining

**Chapter Twelve**

— **JOINING—**

 _ **A**_ rtha's heart was beating a little faster than usual, his nerves shared among the other recruits. They had gathered in what was left of an old temple but to whom he could not say. Curiosity was drained from his mind, chased away by this growing anxiety of this so called Joining. It was troubling to think about. But there was none more worried than Ser Jory, leaning against the ruined wall of the ancient temple which would be the site of their moment of truth, distractingly tapping his feet in a quick rhythm. The more he heard about this Joining, the less he seemed to like it.

"Are you blubbering again?" Daveth furrowed.

"Why all these damned tests?" the knight defended himself. "Have I not earned my place?"

The rogue marched toward him in frustration, highlighted by torchlight. "Maybe it's a tradition. Maybe they're just trying to annoy you." He stood now looking up at the soldier, toe to toe as if they were about to duel.

Jory was about to rebuke him again but Artha interjected, imploring them to calm down. "There was nothing we can do about it now."

The Redcliffe soldier was shaking his head, rubbing the back of his neck nervously. "I only know that my wife is in Highever with a child on the way. If they had warned me…" he was at a loss and slunk back against the wall almost in defeat. Perhaps he was right to be worried, that thought was certainly on Artha's mind, but he had the fortune of having his choices greatly reduced. "…it just doesn't seem fair."

Daveth's conviction was more firm however. He was set on what he had to do, especially once they had first faced the darkspawn out in the Wilds. "Would you have come if they had? Maybe that's why they don't. The Wardens do what they must, right?"

"Including sacrificing us?"

"I'd sacrifice a lot more if I knew it would end the Blight," said Daveth. "You saw those darkspawn, ser knight. Wouldn't you die to protect your pretty wife from them?"

That, Artha could get behind, if it were a certainty. If his brother yet lived, then that would be his priority, to protect him and ensure no further harm came to Fergus. "You make a good point," _if it was as simple as to making one decision for certainty,_ he added.

"Maybe you'll die. Maybe we'll all die but if nobody stops the darkspawn, we'll die for sure."

It seemed that Jory finally got it. He bobbed his round head and crossed his arms over his heavily armoured chest. He clutched his greatsword which was almost as big as he was, staring at the blade with a grim expression. "I've just never faced a foe I could not engage with this."

As their conversation quietened, they could hear songs and laughter within the encampment, soldiers trying to find any way to occupy their minds with distractions and merrymaking. Maker knew the three of them needed some of that as well. Something to rid their heads and hearts of the horrors of the Korcari Wilds.

While they continued to talk, Alistair appeared with a chalice and placed it onto a nearby table. Following behind him was Duncan. With every step that the faithful warrior took has this emanation about him, marching almost with a regal elegance that seemed to drown out all the noise in the background. In his Grey Warden raiment that was ripe with a hidden history, to Artha it was epic. He could pause for a moment and still hold their attentions.

Commander Duncan stood before the recruits who lined up in a line with Alistair at the head. "At last we come to the Joining," he said, walking over to the table and setting things down beside it.

Artha couldn't see over his shoulder to what it was but it was probably important and he could feel his nerves return in a fury.

The light that surrounded the man seemed to dim, like they were bowing down to the Maker's knight. "The Grey Wardens were founded during the First Blight," Duncan began. "When humanity stood on the verge of annihilation. So it was that the first Grey Wardens drank of darkspawn blood and mastered their taint."

Their eyes, each of their eyes had expanded into giant saucers and colour was drained from their faces. Ser Duncan grabbed the beautiful silver chalice which was now filled with the black tainted blood of monsters. "We're…going to drink the blood of those… those creatures?" Artha felt Jory recoiled in terror beside him. He had not brought his sword with him and now that seemed like an unwise decision for he remembered Jory had his and he could foresee this escalating.

"As the first did before us, as we did before you. This is the source of our power and our victory," Duncan replied, his voice unflinching as though he had anticipated resistance, part of the ritual even.

Then Alistair spoke and explained that those who survived the Joining became immune to the taint. "We can sense it in the darkspawn and use it to slay the archdemon," he said to them of the blood they had collected, the dark ichor that reeked of death.

"Those who survive?" Artha was flabbergasted, surely he had misheard them.

Duncan answered straight away, again, seemingly anticipating this line of questioning. "Not all who drink the blood will survive…and those who do are forever changed." The Grey Warden walked up to the young man and with his piercing Rivaini eyes scanned him for resolve. "This is why the Joining is a secret. It is the price we pay."

Then the commander gestured to Alistair who then took his master's place at the centre of them. "Join us, brothers," he started. "Join us in the shadows where we stand, vigilant. Join us as see to the duty that cannot be foresworn. Should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten and that one day…we shall join you."

They spoke only a few words, but those words had been said since the very first. Small comfort they brought against the tide of imminent death, but Artha allowed the young Warden's words to fill him up.

Daveth was called up first, and unlike Jory, was more than ready to lay his life into the hands of fate, into the hands of the Maker Himself. He did not utter any prayers as he accepted the goblet but looked behind him and smiled faintly at his two companions. The sly roguish fellow took a sharp breath in and swiftly gulped down the cupful of blood, all the while Artha waited his turn, as well as making his own prayers.

At first there was nothing, Daveth just stood there and given the chalice back to Duncan. But then, it all changed. The thief, formerly of exact footing, master of his body was suddenly rocking about in a drunken stupor. He held his temple as though reacting to some sort of headache, shaking his head furiously and fell to his knees. He began to yell and cry and as Artha raced in to aid him he saw Daveth's eyes dissolve into white and empty orbs. Artha was implored to back away which he did and was left to watch on as Daveth's cries dropped into all out screams of agony and pain, rising up past the ruins and to the heavens before finally falling lower, clutching his throat and then silent and still upon the cold stone.

"Daveth…I am sorry," the bearded Warden spoke. "Step forward, Jory."

The Redcliffe knight quailed backwards. "Maker's breath…I have a wife. A child!" he wailed, and Artha realised where he was going. The man grasped his greatsword and held it in front. "Had I known—"

"There is no turning back... not now." As Jory took more steps back and Duncan a few steps forward, the latter man pulled out a small curved dagger.

Ser Jory rejected the man's wishes, the demands of this ritual and made to lunge at the Grey Warden. "No! You ask too much!" he cried but with every swing of his sword only cut air against Duncan who still advanced slowly.

"Jory, put the sword down, for Andraste's sake!" Artha beseeched him, trying to get close enough to disarm him, even if with his own hands.

He only shook his head furiously as his forlorn eyes welled up. "There is no glory in this!"

Now seemingly of his own mind and focus, Jory made a few more swings but the Warden simply parried them. Seeing to the flow, he continued the assault and for a brief while there was a struggle, but when Jory made another mistake in his footing laid him open and Duncan swiftly dug his blade into the boardy soldier. Again, Duncan echoed his words, "I am sorry," as he dropped the now dead body of the knight onto the ground.

Artha watched in horror and confusion at the events that transpired now before his very eyes—the death of two friends who shared in the terrors of the Wilds not a few hours ago, now lay still upon the floor. Sadness overcame him though prematurely maybe, for it wasn't over.

"But the Joining is not yet complete." He poured in another vial of darkspawn blood into the chalice and presented it to their only recruit left. "You are called upon to submit yourself to the taint for the greater good."

Cousland huffed in a large intake of air and tore the gloved off of his hands to take the goblet. Then he took only a microsecond to look at the undisturbed blackness and raised it high to consume the liquid within. It tasted like any other blood, only a little bit thicker and he could not explain it but it tasted off, like he was eating the flesh off of a person's body.

At first he felt normal, no change, nothing like Daveth looked, but like the thief before him, felt his head being clouded, then a sharp but prolonged pain, like a gong had been banged in his head. He could not see what was happening but to Duncan and Alistair, he was looking exactly like Daveth did, the blueness of his eyes wiped away as he fell to the ground entirely…

But he was not dead…

He suddenly found himself on his two feet, under a corrupted green sky, looking up toward the terrifying figure of a dragon roaring with mighty breath over the landscape. The giant creature, covered in protruding horns and spikes craned its head down to him with his black eyes staring him down. The dragon roared again and Artha could feel it, the heat of the dragon's sickening breath.

…

Duncan knelt beside the young man that he had rescued from Highever a few days ago and whispered over his body, "From this moment forth, you are a Grey Warden."

…


End file.
